


From Marseille to Paris

by Afterword



Series: The Road to Montreuil [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: 90'S, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Musician!Grantaire, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:59:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afterword/pseuds/Afterword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After he is kicked out of his band, Grantaire is left on his own, homeless and adrift. It is when he hitchhikes with a group of friends, embarking on a holiday road trip across the country under and interesting contract, and meets the impersonation of the God Apollo that he starts to find his way again.</p><p>As they go from Marseilles to Paris, Grantaire warms up to the group, and particularly Enjolras, as he tries to find a way out of his musician's block.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Liberty, Freedom, Equality

That morning, sleep leaves Grantaire unwillingly. In the beginning, he can see the dream he is having with a clarity that surpasses that of reality. It's a kind of clarity that only exists in dreams, that we then only remember with faults, _when_ we remember.

Slowly, sleep sneaks away from him and he can no longer see. In return, he feels the touch of the soft hands he is dreaming about with even more detail than before. The tingling whisper they leave behind is as soft as feathers. In that moment, it feels more real than anything Grantaire has ever felt before, as if he could reach out and touch it; drown in it if he wanted to. Eventually, that, too, is ripped away from him. Despite still being just barely conscious, the sinking feeling in his heart is something he will remember once he is fully woken up. Meanwhile, he still tries hard to continue in the throes of oblivion, even as he starts to feel the touch of real hands in his hair and what must be hushed voices mingled with a consistent soothing sound he cannot identity yet.

When at last he caves in and opens his eyes, there is little he can see. Frail, almost inexistent rays of light seep through what Grantaire is not yet conscious enough to identify. Although he can see little, he can now distinguish that what is caressing his hair  are fingers, with gentle strokes, just as he can feel the heat turning his skin into liquid, as well as the clamminess of his pillow.

“Dim-witted Grantaire, my ass,” it’s the first set of words Grantaire distinguishes, noting that they are spoken in a low voice. “More like angel-lips-Grantaire if you’re cuddling him in the morning.”

The laughter that the comment induces is hushed, too, but even so, another voice tells others to be quieter.

“Why does _he_ get to sleep?” He recognizes the voice now as Éponine’s, her smile almost palpable as she pretends to complain.

“Because he did good last night and he deserves it,” it’s Courfeyrac who answers her. Grantaire’s head heaves up and down along with his drawn breaths and it is only after Courfeyrac is done talking that he notices the soft movement of his pillow, which resembles that of a breathing chest. Enlightenment strikes him all at once, propelling him into full consciousness.

Grantaire pulls off what he now distinguishes as a towel keeping him from the sunlight.

“Good morning, angel lips.” Says Courfeyrac before Grantaire even has time to adjust to the light. His dark brown head of hair is covering the sun from Grantaire’s eyes however, so it's not long before he is able to flutter them open with ease.

Courfeyrac is the only thing he sees, looking down at him with puffy eyes and his ever present mischievous smile, his head against the clear blue sky like one of those portrait paintings Grantaire used to do for a living.

Grantaire’s head is pounding a little, so he doesn’t smile back, although he is rather flattered by his new nickname. It’s certainly better than the last one Enjolras had unknowingly chosen for him.

“Do you have any idea what running hands through my hair does to... you know… _my hair_?” Grantaire shakes his head to stop Courfeyrac’s hands. He remembers his dream then, how different this touch is from the one he felt when he was sleeping, a human’s touch compared to that of a God.

Courfeyrac chuckles, but removes his hand. “I do now,” he says, and both Éponine and Marius join him as he laughs, while Grantaire tries to smooth down his wild curls. It’s then that he realizes they’re the only ones on the beach. The rest of the friends with whom he has, as of last night, decided to tag along on their road trip, are gone.

“Where is the rest of the gang?” Grantaire asks as he sits up. Thankfully, Courfeyrac has decided to grace them with his clothed body again. Now that Grantaire thinks about it, he remembers snogging a very naked Courfeyrac the night before all too well. He also remembers touching places he knows, now that he is entirely sober, he probably should not have touched. Alas, there's more. He looks at Éponine first, and then at Marius, testing the waters. There had been eye on him and Courfeyrac all the while, and he recalls having hoped a certain set of blue eyes were among them.

Éponine narrows her eyes just slightly in a knowing look, while Marius blushes at his attention.

He did not imagine the eyes then.

“We prefer to call ourselves _Les Amis_.” Courfeyrac says.

“They went out to fill up on drink and food.” Marius is still looking down at his feet as he informs Grantaire of this.

“You had me at drink.” Grantaire’s jib only makes Marius blush again. “How do you handle those expenses?”

Courfeyrac only shrugs. “Enjolras usually pays for it and then once we get back we’ll figure it out.” He says.

“So, he’s a rich boy?” Grantaire rolls his eyes, wondering how it took him so long to see it. If the attitude wasn’t enough evidence, then the white shirt he donned yesterday should’ve done the trick. The thing looked like it had been made out of the souls of people.

“Understatement.” Éponine confirms.

“Why aren’t you all “air tripping” on a private plane, then?” He asks.

“Because Joly is afraid of flying, and we like Rose better.” Says Éponine.

“If we didn’t pride ourselves for being a democratic community, then that’s what we would be doing. Enjolras sure wanted to. But “air tripping” is for the anti-social folk. Social individuals such as I require a car and the hard road underneath our wheels.” Courfeyrac says with enthusiasm, somehow managing to make his description very vivid.

“Plus, who would want to be stuck on a plane with you?” Éponine bites back.

“Are you seriously telling me Enjolras owns a private plane?” Grantaire is almost baffled, despite not understanding why. It all goes so well with the superior way in which he sees Apollo, the polar opposites that they are. One is beyond wealthy, the other beyond poor.

Courfeyrac, Éponine and Marius laugh at what must be a stupid bewildered expression on his face. He realizes they were only taking advantage of his naivety in the matter and punches Courfeyrac’s arm because that is the arm that is closer to him.

“Ouch!” Courfeyrac moans. “In our defense, he is so rich he probably _could_ have a private plane.”

“That’s peachy, because—“ He sinks his hands into his pockets and retrieves all the money he has in them, throwing a hundred francs bill and a few cents onto the towel Courfeyrac is seating on. “This is _literally_ all I can contribute with.”

The last thing Grantaire wants to see is the look in Enjolras’ face when he learns that all Grantaire has is a hundred francs. Will he scowl? Will he shake his head in disappointment? Or will he simply roll his eyes and say they can’t take Grantaire with them if he’s not going to pay for his expenses?

“Literally?” Marius echoes, staring at the money on Courfeyrac’s towel with wide eyes. “But… that is not possible.”

“Says rich boy number two.” Éponine is the only one who looks unfazed by Grantaire’s revelation. He can see understanding in the way she regards him.

“What were you doing before we took you in?” Courfeyrac asks, still without taking the money into his hands.

“Walking around, mostly. I would have figured something out eventually, I always do.” Grantaire shrugs and turns away from the other three people in that beach with him, hoping they will take this deliberate move as a sign to leave the subject be.

There’s a silence that settles then, wherein Grantaire welcomes back the sound of the waves and the seagulls in the distance. He doesn’t see it, but he hears Marius cry out in pain and imagines it to be the result of Éponine’s way of telling him off pursuing Grantaire’s predicament further. He silently thanks Éponine.

“If you can’t take me to Montreuil after all, s’okay. I’ll figure that out too.” Grantaire says as he turns back to the familiar people he has warmed up to.

The sound that comes out of Marius’ mouth is so pitched it hurts Grantaire’s ears. It’s like the sound of a lion’s prey as the beast’s teeth catch it. “That is out of the question!” He looks at Courfeyrac, hoping for support, and so does Grantaire.

Courfeyrac is picking up Grantaire’s money from the towel. “Take the money back, angel lips.” He is extending a hand with Grantaire’s money on it, but Grantaire can’t bring himself to take it. That would feel like accepting the fact that he can’t go on with them.

“Courf?” Marius’ cry is flabbergasted. Courfeyrac winks at Grantaire before addressing his friends’ poor soul.

“What do you want me to do, Marius? Enjolras will never let us take Grantaire and expect him to pay for his ass for two weeks. We have to let him go.” Marius’ cheeks are turning redder by the second, his lips contorted in an ugly grimace. “Unless someone else agrees to pay for him.” Courfeyrac concludes.

“Who?” Marius asks, genuinely curious. Grantaire is also curious as to where Courfeyrac is going with this. It seems rather unfair to have someone sustain his sorry ass for two weeks, even if they are as rich as Enjolras apparently is.

“You, stupid.” Éponine says. “You’re the one who needs him, plus you’re always trying find ways to waste your grandfather’s money.”

“Exactly. You’ll be wasting his money, saving poor old Grantaire from a life as a hopeless wanderer, and getting the girl, all at the same time. I’m pretty sure this will get you a presidential suite in Heaven, too.” Courfeyrac grins his winning grin, while Marius meets it with a dawning smile. It’s like the sun has risen in his face, or like he has been given the answers to all the secrets of the universe. He all but jumps to Courfeyrac’s lap and hugs him.

“That is genius!” Says Marius, pulling back from Courfeyrac’s arms. “Problem solved, then. Grantaire is coming with us and he’s introducing me to Cosette.” He is still seated on Courfeyrac’s lap, although he seems not to even notice this as he takes Cosette’s picture from his pocket and contemplates it.

“Thanks, I guess.” Says Grantaire. He sounds nonchalant, but in his mind he is clapping and bowing down to both Courfeyrac and Marius.

“Aren’t you so happy you could kiss me, Marius?” Courfeyrac looks up at Marius and caresses his neck below the boy’s ear with his fingers, as Marius begins to inch his way off Courfeyrac’s lap.

“No…” He says.

“Yes, you are!” Courfeyrac tilts his head and looks at Marius sideways, gracing him with a gaze that would surely melt a lot of panties that were not Marius’.

“Dude…” Marius says.

“ _Dude_ …” Courfeyrac smiles. “Grantaire won’t take you to Cosette if you don’t kiss me, isn’t that right Grantaire?”

If he should be honest, all Grantaire wants to do is laugh at the both of them along with Éponine and let them both handle it – which would probably end up in Courfeyrac scaring off Marius with lips that Grantaire had to admit were quite skilled. But Courfeyrac just found a way to help Grantaire stay with them and saved him a lot of trouble. Grantaire owes him. He also owes Marius, but he can find something else to make it all up to the boy and his grandfather’s money.

So he shrugs and says “Yeah.”

Poor Marius has but a fraction of a second to breathe before Courfeyrac lands his lips on him and holds his head still with his hands. The whole kiss is hilarious. Not only because Marius is pressing his eyes closed with what looks like abnormal force and clear distaste, but also because Courfeyrac is trying really hard not to laugh.  Grantaire is thinking he would give his hundred francs bill to have a Polaroid camera like Cosette’s so he could perpetuate this moment, when Courfeyrac finally breaks and starts laughing uncontrollably.

“Ew, you just spit into my mouth, Courf!” Marius complains, despite being on the verge of laughing too.

Courfeyrac pays him no mind, bending over to try and control his laughter. The way he laughs is contagious. All it takes is a moment for all of them to be struggling between laughing and breathing.

“You owe _m_ _—“_ Marius is saying, when the shrieking sound of a horn cuts him off. The sound startles all of them, fresh out of sleep as they are, used to hearing only their low voices and the waves washing up on the beach. Their heads flick upward, instincts telling them where the source of the sound is. Grantaire expects to see Jehan’s van on top of the hill, where it had been the previous night, but there is only earth and sky in its place.

Nevertheless, it must be them, because the other three friends are now rising up from their seats and packing their things, getting ready to leave. Grantaire mimics them in silence, only grunting when the motion of standing up produces a sharp pain in his back.

“Oh, there they are!” Courfeyrac is waving excitedly toward the top of the hill where, Grantaire sees, are now Joly and Jehan. Only Joly is waving back, whilst Jehan simply stands there appreciating the view. “What’s gotten Jehan’s panties in a bunch today?” He’s staring at Grantaire as he asks this, muscles tight in a preoccupied expression.

“What are you looking at me for? I was sleeping.” Grantaire shrugs.

“He talks to you.” Courfeyrac says.

“He’s known me for a day.”

“Exactly!”

“Get over it, Courf. He's having what he call a "no-Courf-day". We all have them. It's when all you say makes our skin crawl and we just want to punch you. Yesterday it was Enjolras' turn, today it’s Jehan's.” Éponine gives him a friendly pat on the back, coupled with a wink, which does nothing to relax Courfeyrac’s genuinely preoccupied expression. Still, Éponine keeps a comforting arm around his shoulders as they walk toward the stairs.

Grantaire hangs back in an effort to keep from intruding in their moment. He expects to make his way up in a little piece and quiet, but, in retrospect, that was a silly expectation to have.

Marius jumps out of nowhere and lands beside Grantaire, sporting an overly joyed grin that shows the world all of his perfect white teeth and parades his incredibly freckled cheeks.

“So… I am paying for your meat and your mead, I kissed Courf….” He pauses to shudder in an over-dramatic way. “You owe me, Grantaire.”

“Name your price, pretty-boy.”

Marius blushes.

“Well, I—I thought you could tell me all that you know about Cosette. What is she like? What _does_ she like? Maybe I could surprise her with a gift when you introduce us and that way she’ll surely like me back!”

Grantaire chuckles at the boy’s pure excitement.

“ _Don_ _’_ _t_ show up with a gift for someone who doesn’t know you. Do you want her to see you as the creeper you are?” Grantaire regards him with a look that clearly translates into a silent ‘are you stupid?’

“No.” Marius concedes, his eyes darting to his feet. All the excitement he was feeling deflates from him like a balloon. “But can you tell me about her anyway?”

Marius makes Grantaire feel good. His helplessness toward the new object of his affections is, to Grantaire, so ridiculous that it puts his own fawning over Enjolras into a whole different perspective. It makes Grantaire appear very in control of his emotions. That is, of course, not at all true. But as he climbs the stairs telling Marius all that he knows about Cosette and listens to his hopeful sighs, it _feels_ true.

However, there is only so much Grantaire can say about Cosette, having talked to her for less than an hour. They haven’t climbed half of the steps to the top when Grantaire is out of new things to say to Marius’ endless torrent of questions. He keeps asking the same things through different questions, to which Grantaire responds with the same content but through different words.

Éponine and Courfeyrac are a handful of steps ahead of them, keeping each other company in silence. They must be able to listen to Marius and Grantaire, though. Marius’ excitement results in a high-pitched voice and loud chuckles here and there. As it is, if they do, they make no objections or encouragements. Both backs are turned to Grantaire and Marius, although now it’s Courfeyrac who reaches out with a friendly hand to comfort Éponine. It doesn’t take long for Grantaire to put the pieces of the puzzle together. He has tuned out Marius’ voice, answering his questions in autopilot, while in his head he remembers Éponine’s sad eyes whenever Marius mentions Cosette, especially when he had found Grantaire’s picture.

This morning, when Grantaire poured out of his pockets all of his money and dignity, Éponine was the one who looked at him with understanding in her eyes. Now, he was paying her back by introducing the boy she liked to another girl.

Touché, Grantaire.

Reaching that last step of the stairs is like finally finding water in the desert. He swears the sight of Enjolras carrying grocery bags is a mirage. Apollo alone is before him. There is nothing and no one else there but he and Grantaire. The sun is gracing him in gold again, as he stands there with welcoming smile, waiting for Grantaire to join him. And that is how he stays, until Grantaire blinks his eyes.

The mirage is over as quickly as it took him. Suddenly, Marius is speaking next to him, oblivious to Grantaire’s lack of interest in what he is saying. There are other people where a moment before there wasn’t. Most importantly, and to Grantaire’s dismay, Enjolras is not waiting for him with or even looking at him. Instead, he is intently sorting through grocery bags disposed inside Jehan’s van. There’s a small crowd of hungry _Amis_ around Enjolras, waiting with what can be described as anything but patience for their breakfast. Grantaire takes advantage of this to look for the alcohol in quiet solitude.

He smiles when all it takes is one try to find the bag he was looking for. Enjolras is smirking at him too, when he looks up from the bag with a can of beer in his hand. Grantaire finds this odd, at the least, as odd as the pink bottles of _something_ that are resting inside the same bag.

“Which one of you bought the booze?” Grantaire asks, frowning at both the bottles and the still-smiling Enjolras.

“I did.” Says Jehan.

“What the hell is this pink stuff you bought? And, more importantly, is it good?”

Enjolras hands over a sandwich to Jehan, who is not looking at him or Grantaire, but at Courfeyrac. His eyes are not friendly but curious as he watches Courfeyrac, who is still by Éponine’s side, now joined by Marius. Grantaire spares a moment to wonder when was it that Marius realized Grantaire wasn’t paying attention to him anymore and made his retreat. He had not noticed the boy had left.

“I don’t know what that is, but it looks nice and I checked, it has a whole lot of alcohol in it.” He says after a while. “It’s the best of both worlds.”

Grantaire shrugs; content as long as it has alcohol. Now that he knows Marius will pay for his _everything_ , he is free to drink whatever he likes. This thought makes the corners of his lips curl up, before he opens the beer can with a smile that shows his teeth, and gulps down on the liquid.

It’s only then that Jehan remembers to add, “Oh, except the beer. Enjolras chose that. I don’t know why, he doesn’t even like beer that much.”

At precisely the same moment Jehan utters these words, the beer Grantaire drank is sliding down his tongue and throat. He registers the foul taste in his mouth and he _knows why_.

What he does next is not preceded by any thought nor reflected upon, it is merely a result of instinct.

He splutters the liquid out like a fountain.

There are multiple gasps as the beer pours out of his mouth. Everyone is startled into jumping back, away from Grantaire. Except Enjolras. No, Enjolras is laughing whole-heartedly, with his whole body, back curved backwards, mouth wide open to better propagate the sound of his jib.

“This has no alcohol!” Grantaire grumbles when, at last, the beer is out of his mouth. It’s his comment that has everyone joining Enjolras in his laugher while he mopes. “Laugh all you want, but we’re stuck with… 6 packs of non-alcoholic beer, now. Have a good day.”

Grantaire’s words work like magic. The laughter dies down instantly, even Enjolras’, who is now the center of unfriendly attention. Yet he keeps the initial smirk on, which makes Grantaire’s skin crawl. He gives him the finger before retrieving two pink bottles of Jehan’s _whatever_.

“Anyone fancy a game of cards?” Enjolras suggests, his smirk now gone.

Grantaire answers with a loud scoff and the sound of a pink bottle opening. Everyone else seems keen to indulge Enjolras, however, despite some protests and complaints. Courfeyrac is still glaring at him and occasionally slapping the back of his head, but he laughs as he does this, so Grantaire finds he’s alone in his anger. It’s a hollow anger, anyway. Just moments ago Enjolras was the object of his mirage...

Enjolras and his “supporters” get into the van. Grantaire walks away from it. He has all but settled on the ground and sipped on his pink bottle to verify it’s alcohol tenor, when Éponine flumps down next to him.

“Dick move, Enjolr-ass.” She says.

“Yeah. Who knew Apollo would be an ass?” Grantaire raises the pink bottle as if to toast Éponine’s non-existent bottle.

“Apollo?” Éponine frowns.

“The Greek God.”

“I know who Apollo is, dummy,” she pauses, then adds, “If I didn’t know better I would say Marius isn’t the only one with a crush among us.”

Grantaire faces her. She is smiling but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. He understands instinctively that her words don’t carry the meaning that they appear to carry. She has no idea how right she is. Instead, they’re a way to apply pressure on her open wound.

He knows the feeling.

“He certainly isn’t.”

“You know, then. Great, because I wanted to talk to you about it.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows.

“You want to talk to me about your crush on Marius? You barely know me.”

“Alas, it’s not a crush, it’s love. Have you never heard of the saying that it’s easier to talk to strangers than it is to your friends?” Éponine crosses her legs, supports her weight with her hands behind her back and tosses her head back, welcoming the breeze in her hair. Grantaire notices that she is good-looking, has the kind of beauty that is hidden but would come to the surface with the slightest of efforts.

“I have, and I think it’s bullshit.” Grantaire tells her.

“Maybe,” she looks at him sideways, inspecting him as he drinks. “But this morning I felt like we had an understanding. I know what it’s like to have no one, to be lost and penny-less on top of it. For years that is how I lived… And I think there’s something in you that is very destructive, judging by how much you appear to drink everyday, and you were the one who brought Cosette into Marius’ life. I just don’t want you to feel like it’s your fault that it makes me feel miserable, okay?”

“Well, I felt a whole lot more guilt-less before you mentioned how miserable you feel.”  He says.

“Sorry!” Éponine says, making the same face a 4-year-old makes when they know they have done something wrong. “But I’m telling you it’s not your fault. Marius has had years and endless opportunities to fall in love with me. Instead he only sees me as his best friend. Cosette has nothing to do with it. She’s a lovely girl, and she deserves someone as amazing as Marius.”

Grantaire is slightly stunned by the nonchalant way she speaks about the matter. The harsh reality she is telling him about must wound and hurt her. Maybe she reserves the unhappy feelings to her eyes, and that is why she has kept them closed.

“You know Cosette?” Grantaire questions.

“Yes, when we were children. My parents took her in for a while. They were horrible to her. Maybe I’m paying for their unfairness, who knows.” Éponine wonders.

“That seems plausible.”

Éponine opens her eyes to regard him with the sadness he expects. They glimmer in the sunlight with what has to be contained tears. Grantaire feels a great affection for her at that moment, as well as a certain connection. He sees himself in her. Perhaps his future self. But she is beautiful and she has no destructive vices like he does. She has a life, friends who love her; she knows how to deal with her pain properly. Éponine will find someone else who deserves her like Marius could never.

“You know, all I said was true, but I’m still sad and a _little_ bit mad a you. I have the perfect solution for us to fix that, though.” Grantaire only raises his eyebrows in expectation. “You’re going to hold my hand, and you’re going to tell them you have something you want to show me. And then you’re going to take me away so I can cry for while.”

Grantaire gulps down on his pink alcohol.

“So you’re holding me accountable but I’m not?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine by me. But I don’t want to see you cry,” He says. “I don’t want you to cry at all, but I really don’t want to see it if it happens.”

“You can just hang around and watch my back.”

Grantaire nods. That is something he can do.

Éponine’s hand is warm and a little bit damp with sweat. No doubt opening up to Grantaire had made her nervous. But Grantaire makes no comment; he simply takes hold of her hand and leads her toward where he left his guitar case.

As they agreed, after Grantaire picks up his case, he tells the _Amis_ he has something to show Éponine, throwing in a wink for Courfeyrac’s sake. They all whistle and cheer as Grantaire and Éponine leave them behind.

Éponine finds a secluded place between some bushes, near the edge of the cliff, where she seats with her back to Grantaire. He hangs back, far enough that her figure is but the size of his thumb, with his guitar on his lap. The instrument engages with him in a staring contest of sorts. Once, holding his guitar was a natural thing he did, wherein the wood and the strings molded to his body as if they had always belonged there. The tips of his fingers were calloused where they pressed down onto the strings to produce chords. They still are, he can feel the thicker skin there by pressing his fingers against each other. But now holding the neck of his guitar feels alien to him, they don’t fit.

Despite the alien feeling, Grantaire tentatively begins to play the first chords of _Come as You Are_ , the first song he learned to play. It’s one of the most basic songs he knows. If it turns out he cannot play even this song, he’s in worse sheets than he has ever been.

Fortunately, he manages to go through the whole song, singing along in a hush voice, so as not to bother Éponine. The fact that he can still play Come As You Are isn’t enough to make him content, because he is still incapable of properly tuning his guitar, and finding the right rhythm, which results in an unpleasant hearing all the same. He’s putting himself through the song for the third time when frustration takes hold of him and he finds the outlet to it in his guitar by playing random chords with a ferocity that is bordering on mad, scratching the chords, purposefully sounding like an animal shrieking in pain again and again.

Eventually, his anger subsides. When he lets go of the guitar it is in a rather desperate way, going so far as to turn his back to it – and, subsequently, to Éponine. Grantaire lets his head fall onto his hands with a thud, sinking his hands into his curls, scratching his head with the remainder of his frustration running through his veins. Do his abandonment issues go so deep that even motivation isn’t enough to solve them? He misses playing his guitar, and singing to it, and making up silly songs once in a while.

“Are you all right, Grantaire?” Comes Éponine’s calm voice.

Grantaire looks up from his sweaty, useless hands, to see her looking down upon him with concern. There’s not one little sign of her ever having been crying at all. She looks collected and neutral, as if she has just finished doing some yoga exercises. Maybe Grantaire should try yoga. Maybe that would help him get a grip.

He puts her at ease with a nod. Says, “Just stuck.”

Éponine extends a hand to him, and Grantaire takes it, so she helps him up. As they make their way back to Jehan’s van, Éponine gives him a playful pat on the shoulder.

“You know, in retrospect, it was cruel of me to ever even wish you to be having a crush on Enjolr-ass. You’re a cool guy, you deserve to be with someone like… the female version of Kurt Cobain, minus all the drugs and stuff.” Éponine says, making Grantaire frown in genuine curiosity. “He’s hot.”

“I know he is. But why would it be cruel for me to like Enjolras?” He asks.

“Well, because you’d be destined to end up like me. Enjolras is like a brick wall when it comes to sexual or romantic feelings. We keep asking him if he’s ever even _liked_ anyone but he never says. Courf knows him since they were in middle school and has never seen even seen him show interest in anyone. And believe me when I say he’s had plenty of candidates.” Éponine tells him. “It’s cool, though. Each to their own, right? He’s a wonderful person, if a bit too focused in his work. Most of us agreed to sign Courf’s contract so he would too. We all agreed. Enjolras needs to learn how to let go.”

It surprises Grantaire how unsurprised he is by Éponine’s revelation. Undoubtedly, his heart falls as he hears her speak how he’s destined to end up like her, and his stomach twists once he realizes that he is just another of those plenty of candidates, falling at the God’s feet. It’s only fitting, though. Gods do not mingle with Humans, much less corrupt, addict ones such as Grantaire.

“He’s pretty young, though, isn’t he? Maybe he’s just never found someone who was good enough to warrant his attention.” Grantaire tries.

“He’s nineteen. Besides, he’s a guy. Even Joly can overlook the bacteria exchanged in kissing sometimes and give in to his urges.”

“I think we should consent to try him. Let’s give him the remainder of this road trip. You say he’s learning to let go, right? Maybe he lets go and finds himself a lover in the process.”

“Why do I feel like you’re challenging _yourself_ to win his heart?” Éponine smirks, but her eyes are serious.

“Because…” Grantaire mumbles.

Éponine lets out a small, high-pitched, Marius-like shriek. “You really _like_ Enjolras?”

“Can you blame a guy, really? Have you seen him?” Grantaire tries to deflect her panicked expression by joking, but she is having none of it.

“Yes, I have seen him. We call him ‘Marble-jolras’ sometimes did you know that? Because he’s like—“ She stops suddenly, covers her mouth with her hands. “You know, what I was just about to say was awfully presumptuous. I will shut up now.”

Grantaire wants to laugh. There’s a slight tinge of pink in her cheeks that he catches a glimpse of before she turns her face away from him in embarrassment. Grantaire sinks his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“So, you like boys?” She asks after a while. Jehan’s van is close now, so she slows her step in order to prolong their time alone.

Grantaire shrugs.

“Sometimes,” he says.

“Cool!” She smiles. “So, excluding Enjolras, who do you think is the hottest guy out of all _Les Amis_?”

 

 

*                 *                 *

 

Upon their return, the scenery inside Rose – Jehan’s van – is slightly different. The space is more cramped with bags of food, the mattress on the floor has the sheets tidied up like a bed made, despite the fact that all the boys are seating on top of it. Only Combeferre and Enjolras are still playing cards, their expressions much more serious than anyone should ever be while playing a simple game of cards. The rest of the boys are further down into the van, hanging around in a kind of circle, looking intently at something on the driver’s seat.

It’s with them that Grantaire and Éponine settle down. As they get closer, Grantaire sees what they are inspecting is a map of France.

“Back so soon, love birds?” Courfeyrac says.

“I prefer quality over quantity.” Éponine replies, throwing a wink at Grantaire. “Planning our next move?”

There’s a general nod of heads at Éponine’s question. Joly offers each of them a breath mint – which they both kindly decline -, before he delves into a resumed explanation of the sum of the suggestions up until their arrival  as to where they should go next.

“So why are you heading for Montreuil, Grantaire?” Joly asks afterward.

“Enjolras, can you pass me my backpack, please?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras takes a while to shift his attention from his game to Grantaire, looking beyond displeased when he finally does. Yet he concedes to Grantaire’s request with no objections, throwing the rugged backpack to his lap. “Thanks.”

Out of his backpack, Grantaire retrieves the contest flier Cosette had given him at the train station, and hands it over to Joly.

“You’re participating?” Joly asks.

“If I can figure out how to play again until then.”

“You know that you have to go to Montreuil for sign-ups until the end of the week, right?” Joly shows him the flier ad points to where it says so.

“I did not. Shit, is that inconvenient?”

“Actually, it isn’t. But even if it was, we’d go anyway.” Courfeyrac says. He’s seated on the passenger’s seat with his legs crossed in a lotus position, chewing at a pencil.

“Thanks, man.”

“If you win, will you name your band after us?” Marius smiles.

“What, _Les Amis_?”

“ _Les Amis de l_ _’_ _ABC_ , get it? Because we’re activists.” He explains.

“You’re _activists_?” Grantaire asks, disbelievingly, at the same time as Courfeyrac says, “Marius, will you ever stop having bad ideas?”

“Activists for what?” Grantaire insists, looking at all of them in turn.

“Liberty, freedom, equality…” It’s Enjolras who answers him. He’s still seated before Combeferre, still holding his cards in his hands, but they don’t seem to interest him anymore. Grantaire rolls his eyes. “I'm sorry, did I say something ridiculous? I must have, because why else would you be rolling your eyes at our values?”

“Because there is something I like to call inevitability, which renders activism pretty hopeless.” Combeferre slowly crawls out of the way, so that Enjolras can see Grantaire properly, and vice-versa.

“Inevitability?” Enjolras questions.

“Yes. Why waste your breath trying to change the world when the world does not want to change? You raise me a Revolution, I raise you a Battle of Waterloo.”

“And I raise you another Revolution.” Enjolras says.

“It still only supports my reasoning. People always destroy what others build. So why bother? I just think you’re wasting your time.” Grantaire crosses his arms over his chest and concerns Enjolras with intrigue.

“Are you suggesting we should cross our arms over our chests like you just did, and settle for whatever is thrown our way? Should we conform to being treated like we’re less than others, to being robbed of our freedom? Should we not live because, one day, we’ll die?” Enjolras speaks with his hands and his arms, his voice clear and open. Grantaire has never felt Enjolras’ attention so strongly on him before, and it is thrilling.

“Okay, okay, boys, that is enough.” Courfeyrac breaks through the moment with his half muffled voice, as he speaks with his pencil still in his mouth. Suddenly, there are other people again around them, and Enjolras’ eyes aren’t on him anymore. Still, he appears to not be mad, or angry, or even irritated at Grantaire. Instead he seems to be as intrigued by Grantaire’s views as Grantaire is intrigued by his.

“Gosh, can’t you just feel the sexual tension?” Éponine says to Marius, pretending to be speaking only to him while the volume of her voice indicates otherwise. Marius blushes, resembling a lost puppy with his frown.

“’Ponine…” Jehan mutters in warning, sneaking a glance toward Enjolras, who is looking quite oblivious to the whole thing.

“Ugh, someone open the windows, it's too strong, I can't breathe!” She fans herself in an overly dramatic fashion.

“The door is open.” Marius tells her, clearly as oblivious as Enjolras.

“Seriously, Marius?”

That is when everyone burst into laughter. The only ones who don’t laugh are Enjolras, Marius and Grantaire. The first two are oblivious to the joke; the latter, is still stuck recalling the exchange between him and Enjolras. But Grantaire smiles and thinks he might just keep Éponine after this road trip is over.

“So, where to next?” Enjolras asks at no one in particular, once all the laughter has died down.

“I say we stay in Marseille to visit the city,” Courfeyrac begins, pausing to see Jehan’s reaction to his words. The boy is simply nodding. “We can crash on a camping site near here so we can actually bathe – the smells are getting dire in here -, and then we’ll set to Montreuil. After Grantaire has signed up, we’ll make our way to Paris, where I will be taking Jehan to one of the best flower markets in the world.”

Courfeyrac looks again at the boy with a certain expectation in his eyes. Jehan is struggling to keep his lips from bursting into a smile, an attempt that is not looking to be successful.

No one raises any objections to Courfeyrac’s plan for once, and so they get ready to leave for the camping site he mentioned.

Just before Courfeyrac starts the van, he adds as an afterthought:

“I would just like to point out that the dire smell in here has nothing to do with Jehan, seeing as he doesn’t simply like flowers. He _is_ a flower. And flowers don’t smell.”

“Why do I feel like I’m next on your ‘to-kiss’ list?” Jehan asks.

Courfeyrac just smirks.

 


	2. Midnight Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They spend the day at a camping site in Marseille. Courfeyrac finally gets to play his favorite game of Spin the Bottle, and Enjolras doesn't mind sharing his tent with Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm publisihing the un-beta-ed version of this because it's been more than 10 days since I last updated. I'll update with the Beta-ed version once I have it.
> 
> Remember, be easy.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading.
> 
> (Thank you to Enjolrast on tumblr for the tips on Combeferre's and Jehan's hidden talents)

The camping site Courfeyrac drives them to is no further away from the beach than thirty minutes. Upon their arrival, the ambience is rather calm. There are people of all ages in their swimsuits going back and forth, holding their towels in their hands, but the commotion is controlled. Courfeyrac parks Rose in between two trailers that look like they’ve been there for a while, both with a hanger outside where clothes dry up under the sunlight.

They all hop out of the van, sinking their feet on the mixture of sand and earth that makes up the ground, and contemplate the rows of tents and trailers that extend in front of them. Grantaire had not noticed the shelves inside the van, wherein their tents were stored. Only now, as he sees Combeferre extracting and throwing them to its rightful owners, does he notice they were there all along.

As everyone is handed their tents, Grantaire hangs around with his hands wandering from his hair to his jawline, while his eyes search his surroundings for something to do. Everyone is busy unpacking tents from their bags, failing to notice the odd one out. Sooner rather than later, it begins to look like he could create roots in the spot where he stands, so he takes matters into his own hands.

“Who should I be helping?” He bends down toward Combeferre, who is on his knees taking his tent out of the bag with Joly’s help, because he seems to be the one in charge at the moment.

“Enjolras. He’s the one with the unnecessarily big tent all for himself. He’ll share with you.” Grantaire straightens up and searches for Enjolras. “You will find he’s the guy with the tent bag that is taller than Pontmercy.”

“That’s me, by the way.” Says Marius, somewhere behind Grantaire.

Grantaire nods, paying little attention to the boy. He’s scrutinizing the commotion before him, hoping to find Enjolras. Half-hidden behind a tree, Grantaire sees his blond head peak out. There’s little else he can see of Apollo, as he is squatting on the ground, intently engaged in his task. Grantaire doesn’t notice this, but before he sets out to join Enjolras, he straightens up, runs a hand through his wild curls, even goes so far as to snap his fingers and clear his throat.

When he gets close enough that Enjolras and his tent aren’t obstructed from his view, Grantaire notices that, on his own, Enjolras already has half the work done. It’s an impressive feat, seeing as Combeferre was not exaggerating all that much. The tent looks pretty massive from where he’s standing.

“Can I help?” Grantaire offers.

Enjolras turns his head upwards almost in slow motion. His eyes struggle to remain open, as Grantaire is not shadowing them from the sun.

“Why?” Enjolras asks.

“Because I don’t have a tent, you have one big enough for all of us, and I’d really appreciate not having to spend one more night sleeping outside.”

Enjolras looks tired. He lets his shoulders fall in resignation before his legs prop him up into a standing position. “Help me get it up, then. I was going to ask for Combeferre’s help but you’ll do just fine.”

He points toward the opposite side of the tent. When Grantaire fails to move, Enjolras raises his eyebrows.

“Does that mean you don’t mind sharing your tent with me?” Grantaire asks instead.

“Do you snore?”

“No.”

“Then help me get this tent on its feet.”

Suspicious, Grantaire meanders to the opposite side of the tent. If there is a certainty in his life, it is that Enjolras does not like him. Grantaire might even disgust him now that he has succeeded in insulting his values. And if that is true, then the ease with which he accepted to share his personal space with Grantaire is doubtful, at the very least. That is why, as Grantaire aids him in getting the tent onto its feet, he scrutinizes every move Apollo makes. Such a precaution turns out to be useless, seeing as Enjolras is only concentrated on the task at hand, all the while silent but for the occasional grunt or direction to Grantaire.

By the time the tent is set, there is no other choice on Grantaire’s plate but to accept that despite his dislike of him, Enjolras simply does not want Grantaire to sleep outside or squeezed between Courfeyrac and Marius. That is incredibly kind of him, Grantaire thinks, because that is a sandwich he does not want to make tonight.

Most of the others are already gathering their things to go shower when Combeferre approaches Grantaire. A sleeping bag is hanging in one of his arms, and he reaches to pat Enjolras in the back, a gesture that Enjolras seems to welcome.

“I’m glad you’re not giving our friend Grantaire a hard time.” He says to Enjolras through a small smile.

“He hasn’t given me a reason to yet,” Enjolras nods toward his friend before disappearing into his tent with his own sleeping bag and backpack.

Combeferre watches him as he disappears, only turning back to Grantaire once he is gone. The smile is still on his lips, somehow making Grantaire suspect there’s something he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t like it.

“This is for you.” Combeferre extends the arm that carries the sleeping bag toward Grantaire.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says as he takes the sleeping bag onto his hands. “You two are very close.” He says then.

Combeferre nods.

“There’s no one else who knows Enjolras as well as I do,” he says, and then reaches out to rest a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “But that doesn’t have to be so forever.”

The hand on Grantaire’s shoulder falls and then he’s walking away, taking his knowing smile with him, leaving a very confused Grantaire behind. Why did he feel the need to share such information with the man Enjolras dislikes? As if Grantaire could ever wish to replace Combeferre’s role in Enjolras’ life. Besides, he is pretty sure Enjolras heard every word he said.

It’s because of this knowledge that Grantaire hesitates before entering Enjolras’ tent. When he finally does, however, he does not meet the man. As it turns out, the tent has two divisions. One of them is open, the other closed. The latter is where Enjolras must be.

“Do you need anything else?” He asks as he places Combeferre’s sleeping bag inside his side of the tent. It looks even bigger from the inside, which leads Grantaire to wonder whether Enjolras is not only a God but also a Timelord.

“A shower.” He unzips the “door” to his “room”, coming out on his knees. There’s a towel around his naked shoulders, covering little of his equally naked chest. He’s wearing shorts that Grantaire assumes are for swimming, and on his feet there are flip-flops instead of shoes.

“I’ll be happy to help with that too, if that is your wish.” Grantaire smirks.

“I’m perfectly capable of showering by myself. Why would I need your help?” Enjolras frowns.

The genuine quality with which he poses the question makes Grantaire chortle. Yet he remembers how well Enjolras had lied to him the day they met, and he is no longer sure he can trust he is as oblivious to Grantaire’s teasing words as he appears to be.

Grantaire concedes him a shrug, which Enjolras seems to accept as a sufficiently good answer. He’s out of the tent after that, leaving a confused Grantaire behind. There’s nothing for him to do inside that tent – his backpack with his belongings is still inside the van -, but he stays there nonetheless. That is, until he hears Courfeyrac’s name being shouted from behind him.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Says the same voice, which Grantaire identifies as Joly’s right before he steps out of Enjolras’ tent and sees Joly wrapped in a towel, his hair dripping water into the ground, looking as if he is about to faint.

Courfeyrac drops his own towel onto the ground in favor of raising his hands in the air. Marius, who is standing between the two, jumps out of the way, stumbles on his own feet, and falls on Éponine’s arms.

“Jesus, Joly, you’re scaring Pontmercy half to death!” Éponine jeers.

“What did I do this time? I swear I’m innocent!”

Joly holds onto his towel like a lifeline, despite being fully clothed beneath it. He sniffs loudly, as hard as one would breathe in before beginning a wrath-fueled speech. Yet when he speaks, it’s only two words.

“The showers!” He bellows.

 “What about the showers?” Courfeyrac exchanges a look with Grantaire, who shrugs at him.

“They’re outside, and they’re mixed. It’s just two endless rows of people showering without their sandals on. Do you know how unhygienic that is? Not to mention there is _no hot water!_ ” Joly lets it all out in one breath, teeth chattering in what has to be an overly dramatic way because Grantaire feels like he’s boiling under the sun and he really wouldn’t mind a cold shower right now.

“Look on the bright side: at least there _are_ showers.” Courfeyrac pauses, then adds in a teasing voice: “This was really cheap.”

As Joly turns his back to him, Courfeyrac slaps his bum playfully, which earns him a death glare. He raises his hands in the air once more, falling into a fit of giggles. Before others can join him, though, Combeferre slaps him across the head, halting his giggles. He massages the back of his head through his hair, glaring at Combeferre, who is already making his way north, supposedly from where Joly had come. Grantaire sees everyone following him, and so he does the same.

“Are we just going to leave Joly behind?” Jehan’s voice comes from a good distance away. Grantaire looks back and sees him standing near their tents, glancing back and front from the tent where Joly is currently in, and the rest of his friends.

“He’s showered, we haven’t.” Courfeyrac says.

“But—“

“You want to keep him company and comfort him, do it when you’ve bathed and smell like flowers again. He’ll thank you for it.”

Jehan takes a moment to consider Courfeyrac’s words. With a resignated shrug of his shoulders, he accepts their accuracy and joins them.

They walk at a comfortable pace, one that suggests they enjoy each other’s company. Grantaire notices the way they tend to gravitate toward each other more often then not, how they so easily exchange smiles or reach out to touch each other with genuine friendliness. He thinks he’s never encountered such a tight group of friends before. He would go so far as to say their friendship is overwhelming to him, the boy who never really felt like someone enjoyed his presence half as much as they enjoy each others’.

Grantaire finds himself treading through thin ice. It’s noon and he doesn’t have nearly enough alcohol in his system to tolerate such thoughts. That is how he ends up clinging to Enjolras’ back with his eyes, desperately letting himself drown in the curve of his spine, the gold of his skin that looks softer than silk. There is only a towel on his shoulders, but for that and his shorts Enjolras is showing his body to whoever wants to see.

Contrary to popular belief, Joly had not been exaggerating. As they arrive at their destination, they see two rows of showers, side-by-side, enveloped in a kind of white mist produced by all the water that pours down from the showerheads. Among this mist are people. Grantaire doesn’t pay them any mind. He sees only a blur of skin and color, but the sounds of their talking and laughing are very prominent.

They find a place with vacant showers for everyone in the opposite side of where they had come in. Éponine slaps Grantaire in the bum, much like Courfeyrac had done to Joly minutes before, and then she’s off to occupy the shower next to Marius. The boy waves at Grantaire when he sees him looking. Grantaire nods in his direction right before taking his shirt and his jeans off. Unlike the others, he didn’t prepare for swimming; therefore all he has is his boxers.

There is only one vacant shower for him to use. All he wished for was to be next to one of them, so he could steal some of their shampoo, because he has none of that too. All that time he is perfectly aware that Enjolras should be somewhere in there, that the sight of him under the pouring water, running wet hands through wet skin, is something he has dreamed about. To avoid awkward moments, however, he has chosen not to purposefully bathe next to Apollo. Yet he sees his red shorts as soon as he turns around. Courfeyrac occupies the shower on the right side of the one destined for Grantaire, Jehan the one on the left. Enjolras has the one right in front Grantaire’s.

He doesn’t know whether to be overjoyed or dismayed. Already his heart is beating faster, pumping the blood in his veins with excitement and desire. He feels it boiling, and that is how he hops under the cold water with such ease, welcoming it.

Enjolras does not notice him there, but he is all Grantaire can see. In the back of his head, Grantaire knows he is there to _shower_ , not to stare, although only vaguely. Still, that very same part of him propels his hands to go through his hair, going through the motions in a robotic manner, while he studies Enjolras’ long eyelashes as he keeps his eyes closed.

It’s only when Enjolras turns his back to Grantaire that he snaps out of it. The water finally feels cold, even if not unpleasantly so.

“You should thank God Joly came on his own. He would never talk to you again if he saw you right now.” Courfeyrac says, playfully smiling at Grantaire and looking down at his bare feet. He wiggles his toes in response, wondering if he is joking or telling the truth. It’s a rather instinctive choice he makes to refrain from asking, being more than willing to contend with ignorance.

It’s as he is looking down at his feet that he sees Enjolras’ shampoo lying there almost on his side of the shower. Courfeyrac’s or Jehan’s have nothing on Enjolras’ shampoo, he thinks.

Looking up in order to make sure that Enjolras still has his back turned to him, Grantaire grabs the shampoo, squeezes the bottle so that white liquid is being poured onto his hands. He bends down to put the bottle back in the exact same place. One more moment of blissful contentment in having successfully stolen from an oblivious Enjolras, and then, still bending down, he notices Enjolras’ feet are now turned in his direction. As if in slow motion, he tilts his head up. The water still running down from the showerhead doesn’t allow him to see much. He has his eyes narrowed, sees but a blur of red and gold that has to be Enjolras looking down at him. There is no way Enjolras is wearing anything but an irritated expression on his face, Grantaire knows. That is why he opens his mouth in his most cheeky grin and plops the hand with Enjolras’ shampoo onto his head. 

“What’s the scent?” He asks once he is standing again, meeting Enjolras’ blue eyes.

“Lavender,” Enjolras grunts. The shampoo in his own hair resembles a helmet, which Grantaire finds hilarious. He begins to laugh, but stops when Enjolras crosses his arms.

“Is that the second time you’ve shampooed your hair?” Grantaire is leaning to the side, so as to protrude his head out of the water stream. He’s massaging his scalp with a carefulness and intensity he has not used in a while, wanting Enjolras’ smell to engrave in his skin.

“Yes.” Enjolras says as he lets the water wash it down.

“Is it really _that_ dirty?”

At that, Enjolras looks as if he’s swallowed a toad. He gets a handful of water that is running down his hair and throws it at Grantaire. It takes Grantaire a moment to let sink in what Enjolras just did, but it is a short one. The water hits him right in the face, and he recoils upon himself, clinging to his eyes and moaning in pain. Courfeyrac and Jehan, who had until then been straining to laugh at the whole exchange, now hover around Grantaire. They keep asking him if he is all right, but Grantaire only keeps moaning.

“Did you throw him with your shampoo water, Enjolras?” Grantaire hears Jehan’s voice.

He cannot see, but he can _feel_ Enjolras’ nonchalant shrug. In response, Grantaire moans louder.

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder that Grantaire knows instantly does not belong to either Courfeyrac or Jehan. It’s gentler than Courfeyrac’s, less delicate then Jehan’s. It’s warm on his skin. The feeling is fleeting one. It’s gone so soon, Grantaire wonders if he did not imagine it to begin with.

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras says.

Grantaire cannot believe his ears. The words are half muffled by the sound of the water streams surrounding them, but it is there, and it’s Enjolras’. It incites a smile from Grantaire’s lips, and that is how he raises his head and faces Apollo. He has a fraction of a second to take in the other man’s distressed face before the irritated look is back.

“Did you fake all of that?” He asks. Grantaire smiles even wider. “You’re a good liar.”

A pretty lousy one compared to you, Grantaire thinks. Yet instead of saying so, he answers in kind, throwing water right at Enjolras’ face. He doesn’t pretend to be hurt.

When Enjolras resurfaces from behind his hands, he is only trying to glare. Courfeyrac gasps out loud when Enjolras throws water at Grantaire for the second time.

“Come on now boys, settle down! Enjolras, it’s like I don’t even know you anymore.” He says, and Enjolras looks taken aback by his words. “I like it!” Courfeyrac adds with a wink.

Apparently, Enjolras doesn’t share Courfeyrac’s opinion. With not another word he washes the remainder of the shampoo out of his hair in hurry and leaves to wrap himself around his towel.

“You can use my shower gel if you want.” Jehan offers then, ripping Grantaire’s attention from Apollo. He’d been scrutinizing the perfect curve of Enjolras’ back again, as he rinses his hair with his towel, bent forward to do so.

Jehan is contemplating him with a small light green bottle of shower gel in his hand. His lips are unsmiling, unlike Grantaire expected to find them. In his head he has internalized that Jehan has an easy smile, which he always would use when talking to Grantaire. It seems he internalized it wrong. Despite this, Jehan is still kindly offering him the product, and so Grantaire accepts.

It’s only after he has showered and rinsed the water out of his body that Grantaire notices he smells of what he is sure must be roses. Roses and Lavender, he thinks with an amused smile he does not even realize he has.

Around him, familiar faces are getting dressed. Éponine comes to join him, still wrapped around her towel. They get dressed at the same time, Grantaire in his only other pair of trousers and dark blue shirt. It suits him like a breath fresh air.

“I like your tattoo. I hadn’t noticed it before.” Éponine is contemplating his right collarbone, where words carved in black grace his skin. She seems curious as she reads them but something in Grantaire must make her refrain from asking. “Do you have any others I didn’t notice before?”

“Yeah…” He says.

“Really? Where? Can I see them?”

To her delight, Grantaire extends his hand near her line of vision and opens his index finger and thumb apart. There he has a short excerpt of the tablature of a song he once wrote for himself. Grantaire doesn’t tell her this, but she seems enchanted by it nonetheless.

He closes the hand in a fist and hides it behind his back.

“I have some more, but that one I did myself.” He says.

“Are you serious?” Grantaire nods. “Can you do one on me saying “Fuck you Pontmercy”?”

They laugh in companionship as they make their way back to the tents. They’re a little behind the others, engaged in a conversation about Grantaire’s other art abilities. Neither Éponine nor Grantaire notice the others have stopped walking until Éponine collides with Enjolras’ body. The collision causes a loud thump noise, as if Enjolras is indeed made of marble. In that moment he could be, Grantaire thinks. His face is carved in an unfeeling expression, attentive but uninterested as he listens to a girl talk to him. She is taller than him, tanned, with long brown hair that flows down her back. She is terribly attractive, more so because she is only wearing her miniscule bathing suit. Due to her height – or maybe not -, her breasts are almost at eye level with Enjolras, but he seems entirely indifferent to them.

He’s not the only one with a girl on his arm. To Apollo’s left, three other girls accompany all the other boys. One is blond, the other ginger, the other black-haired, as if someone had picked them out of a basket because they wanted one of each hair color. 

“We should join your Apollo. His face is like the embodiment of a cry for help.” Éponine has her arm entwined with Grantaire’s. She thugs on it, wanting to drag him back to where Enjolras is talking with the brunette.

Grantaire stands his ground.

“What happened to wanting him to ‘let go’?”

“Look at him, is that the face of someone who is going to be letting go anytime soon?” Éponine points out. Grantaire rests his eyes on Enjolras face and a warmth climbs it’s way up and down his throat, settling in his stomach. Indeed, he looks as if he’s in the middle of a mind-numbingly boring lecture.

“Maybe not.” He says.

“And are you seriously going to allow him to ‘let go’ with someone who isn’t you?”

Grantaire shushes her with a hand on her lips. “Shh, he can hear you!”

“No, he can’t.” She crosses her arms.

“Right. Well, it’s never going to happen with me. Might as well let him have some fun on his own,” prodded into a train of thought by his own words, Grantaire pauses. “Do you think he has fun on his own?” He then asks Éponine.

She smiles devilishly. “If by fun you mean reading books and planning speeches, then yes, he does. If, on the other hand, you mean having fun with… well… his _hand_ , then, honestly, I think not.”

Grantaire contemplates Enjolras from top to bottom. He has his arms crossed over his chest. All of his weight is on his left foot. It seems to Grantaire that he is trying his hardest to appear interested, smiling once in a while but only ever so slightly.

“That is just _wrong_.” He says, and with that he lets Éponine drag him toward Apollo and his brunette.

“… the constellations. I’ve always wanted to learn more about the stars.” They hear the brunette say as they approach.

Enjolras shifts his weight to his right foot and says, “You should talk to my friend Jehan, then. He took an astronomy class last semester because he shares your interest.”

“Really?” The girl seems unimpressed. “What about your interests?”

“Oh, don’t get him started on that!” Says Éponine. “Trust me, you’re better off just asking him about his favorite color or something.”

Brunette turns to Éponine wearing the fakest of smiles. “Really? What _is_ your favorite color, then?” She asks through clenched teeth.

“Red.” It comes out of Grantaire’s mouth as if it has a mind of its own. He doesn’t even remember internalizing that Enjolras’ favorite color is red before he’s said it.

Both Enjolras and Éponine stare at him.

“Yes, red.” Enjolras confirms.

“Oh, that’s my favorite color too!”

“Just don’t ask him _why_ red’s his favorite color.” Éponine says, and the girl raises her eyebrows in question. “It’s because it represents blood, and revolution, and the blood of the martyrs of France.”

Enjolras sighs, Grantaire feels awkward enough for the three of them combined, and the girl finally seems to get the message.

“I’ll see you later, Enj.” She kisses his cheek and smiles at him before leaving with her tricolored friends.

Once she’s gone and they’re again back to making their way to both the tents and Joly, Enjolras turns to Grantaire and Éponine.

“Thank you for interceding. I honestly don’t know what she wanted with me – she seemed to have more in common with Jehan – but she was quite insistent.” He vents, sinking his hands in the pockets of his tracksuit trousers.

“Honestly?” Éponine looks at him sideways.

“I think she was flirting with me, judging by the way she thrust her breasts onto my face.” He confesses.

Grantaire laughs then. The reason why he laughs isn’t only one. There are many. It is because of Enjolras’ clueless face and genuine doubt, but also because he feels so content that Enjolras seems to have absolutely no interest in the girl. Of course, he seems to have absolutely no interest in Grantaire either – quite the opposite actually – but he’s not going to reminisce about that right now.

Enjolras cringes his teeth.

“Wait, did she say ‘see you tonight’?”

This time, Éponine laughs too.

 

 

*                 *                 *

 

 

 

At twilight, Enjolras’ new “candidate” appears alongside what Grantaire assumes is her group of friends. _Les Amis_ are settled down in quiet peacefulness around a fire. Having postponed their previous plan to go to the city in the afternoon in favor of having a full day tomorrow to do so, they had succumbed almost instantly to the relaxation that a fresh shower brought. Thus, all through the afternoon they had talked lazy conversations about trivial things that did not requite much thought, drifted to sleep once in a while, and eaten when their stomachs growled in protest.

Now, with the sun hidden, even Grantaire feels his eyes weighting down. In his muscles there’s a numb pain that is easily forgotten but ever present. Despite his growing lassitude, he is the first to see the Brunette approaching them in the distance. He has but a bottle of dwindling pink alcohol to keep him entertained, while others are either asleep or busy with some semblance of activity. Combeferre is reading a book by the fire, supporting Éponine’s sleeping head on his shoulder. Joly is deeply engaged in inspecting his tongue in a small portable mirror. Courfeyrac is debating with Enjolras about something in the map they are both grasping, while Jehan sleeps with his head on Courfeyrac’s legs with an expression of utter contentment in his features.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire calls. It must say something that, when Enjolras shifts his attention from Courfeyrac to Grantaire, he no longer appears to be irritated at Grantaire for having interrupted him or for simply being there. “Your friend, Brunette, is keeping her promise.”

For a moment, it appears as if Enjolras is about to arch an eyebrow in question. Sudden realization must strike him then, for he is snapping his head toward the approaching band of friends the moment after. The Brunette smiles, Grantaire sees, to which Enjolras responds with an awkward raise of his hand that is torn between being a wave and a stop sign.

“Oh, but Brunette, what pretty friends you’ve got there!” Intervenes Courfeyrac with a start that shakes Jehan off his sleep. The boy moans as he opens his eyes, probably because Courfeyrac has just ripped him away from a wonderful dream about orchids.

Courfeyrac’s excited voice grabs the other’s attention. Even Combeferre tears his eyes away from the pages of his book to learn the reason of the sudden commotion. In a matter of seconds, they are all coming back from sleep and inertia, as if responding to a call.

In the distance, Grantaire doesn’t like what he sees. The girls from earlier are next to Brunette, glowing in their perfection. Grantaire doesn’t trust them. When something seems to good to be true, generally it’s because it is. But behind them come 3 other young men, all donned in light summer clothes, hair haphazardly kept, looking as if permanently touched by salt. There is nothing wrong with their appearance. What Grantaire doesn’t like is the smugness in their smiles, the kind that is unlike Courfeyrac’s – not just mischievous but also callous.

  There’s nothing he can do to stop them from coming, or to stop Courfeyrac from welcoming them, or Brunette from sitting closer than necessary next to Enjolras. But when they arrive, they bring booze with them, so Grantaire is more willing to accept them that way. He nods as they introduce themselves, forgetting their names as soon as they’re uttered, sinking back into his seat, and watches Enjolras from behind his new bottle of scotch.

This time around, he is engaged in conversation with Brunette. She mostly listens while he talks enthusiastically, waving his hands around, touching her on her shoulder or on her arm once in a while. She has Enjolras’ undivided attention, and Grantaire envies her at that moment. Yet it must not be the kind of attention she is looking for, because her nods and smiles are only fake. Enjolras appears to be oblivious to her boredom, however.

It must be in an attempt to escape Enjolras' grasp that Brunette speaks up. Whatever it is that he speaks of so enthusiastically, it is surely not what she wants to hear. Grantaire has a not-so-vague suspicion that he is attempting to bring her to his activist side, perhaps talking about France's ancestors and their sacrifices at the barricades, if Éponine's words from earlier carry any truth to them.

Brunette takes advantage of a moment that Enjolras takes to regain his breath. She suggests that they all play a game. No one is happier than Courfeyrac, who is up and deciding for everyone that playing a game is a good idea. No one is fooled by his innocent smile, however. The minute he is up, they all know - at least all of Les Amis do - what game they are going to be playing.

"I know just the game to play," he says. "Are you done with that bottle?" He asks Grantaire.

"No!"

"Well then just gulp it all down and hand it to me." Courfeyrac says, as if it's water that swims inside that bottle and not scotch. It's true, though, that Grantaire is so used to any kind of alcohol by now that doing what Courfeyrac is asking of him would not be hard. His throat has burned all the way through, like his stomach and his liver. They are numb to the flame of the alcohol.

Yet instead of agreeing, Grantaire takes a little sip.

"Ask nicely." He says afterwards. His wet lips curl in a smirk that urges Courfeyrac on. He crouches down next to Grantaire, so they are both at the same level.

"I'll get your bottle stop on Enjolras." He whispers in Grantaire's ear. A shiver waves up and down his body then. Grantaire blames it on the harsh breeze of the evening. But Courfeyrac, who has had a hand on Grantaire's shoulder for support this whole time, feels it. He throws back his head to chuckle, and when he faces Grantaire again, the bottle is already empty.

"If you don't keep that promise, you'll owe me a bottle of scotch." Grantaire notices that curious faces stare at the two of them, Enjolras included. He salutes them. Courfeyrac winks down at him.

While Courfeyrac tells the group what game they will be playing and everyone moans that they already know, Grantaire wonders how Courfeyrac knew. Is he that obvious?

He shrugs off the thought before it consumes him. Distracted by it, Grantaire did not notice Jehan standing up to meet Courfeyrac. As he comes out of his own unforgiving thoughts, the boy is holding Courfeyrac by the shoulder, a humble smile in his lips. He says they ought to play another game first, in order to get to know each other better, before “we start sucking each other’s faces off,” he explains.

To everyone’s surprise, Courfeyrac does not object. On the contrary, he leads Jehan to seat next to him on the ground, smiling all the way. They’re all seated in a circle, Amis and new acquaintances alike, having positioned themselves that way for a game of spin the bottle. Instead they play what Jehan calls the ‘hidden-talent-game’, which has a self-explanatory name. One by one they go to the middle of the circle and show everyone their hidden talent. Barring Enjolras, who refuses to join in, ditching them for a little more map examining, even when Courfeyrac warns him about starting his ‘no’ count of the day. He simply shrugs.

Without Enjolras, they play. Grantaire does not care for what the Barbies’ and Surfer Kens’ talents are. He registers that they are all ridiculous, hardly worthy of being called talents. Unlike Jehan intended, Grantaire does not get to know the strangers better, but does so with his road trip mates. He discovers that Combeferre has an impressively good memory – he recalls a conversation with Éponine almost completely accurately -, that Éponine can make a remarkable Terminator impression and Joly can sing the entire periodic table. Courfeyrac impresses no one by saying he has no hidden talents, “I’m an open book,” he says. Similarly, Marius has the most useless talent, which consists of him making his eyes tremble.

Grantaire impresses others with his talent with numbers as much as Jehan does with his marksman skills. He would’ve never guessed Jehan, the flower-lover, gentle soul, had that ferocity in him. But then again, he, the drunk, is good with math. The parallel would’ve called for a high five, if Grantaire were that kind of guy.

He is not the kind of guy to high five, but he is the kind of guy to seat back with his bottle of scotch held against his chest, reminiscing on Enjolras’ hidden talent. Perhaps it is one he is not proud of, which is why he refrained from playing. Grantaire is laughing as he imagines some particularly un-Enjolras-like talents, when suddenly the face of Blond Girl fills his field of view almost completely. She’s incredibly close, and Grantaire flinches back in surprise. She leans in closer still, and suddenly he realizes they are now playing Courfeyrac’s favourite game of Spin the Bottle. There’s not much that he finds attractive in this girl, despite the fact that, overall, she is good-looking. He focuses on her lips, which are full and perfectly shaped, before he closes the gap between them and kisses her. It’s a brief kiss, albeit not unpleasant. When he pulls back, she is licking her lips.

The games come to an end when Jehan refuses to give Courfeyrac the satisfaction of scratching his name from his ‘to-kiss-list’, after Courfeyrac’s bottle not so randomly stops on him. Jehan is as adamant in his decision to not let Courfeyrac kiss him as Courfeyrac is on getting Jehan to give in. The two of them wander off somewhere Grantaire cannot see, beyond the trees, and the group disperses.

Enjolras did not play either game, which meant two things. First, Courfeyrac now owes Grantaire a bottle of scotch. Second, this is not Grantaire’s lucky day.

“Two no’s today, Enjy-boy?” Éponine says.

“Please, don’t call me that.”

Éponine shrugs and lies back down on Marius’ legs. He is talking excitedly while Éponine keeps her eyes closed, no doubt rambling about the things Grantaire had told him about Cosette.

Grantaire drinks some more.

By the time Courfeyrac and Jehan return, they are all more than a little bit drunk. If one was unable to notice the change in Courfeyrac by the absent glimmer in his eyes, then his unusual quietness should be enough for even Marius Pontmercy to notice. They settle down next to the dwindling fire, joining the relaxed babble of youth that is enjoying the light tiredness of fun. The sky is pitch black, pinpointed by the starts. Around them, people go about their business without noticing them, appearing and disappearing behind trees or tents. There are little balls of warm light about their heads, hanging from one tree to the other like Christmas lights. They shower Grantaire and the group of friends in warm soft yellow light that is as welcoming as it is comfortable.

Grantaire feels comfortable in his spot against a tree that seems to mould to his back, as long as the bottle in his hand is not empty. It’s in this comfortable place that Jehan begins to play the flute. He plays familiar tunes interposed by unknown ones that quickly become familiar, with an agility that Grantaire had only a week ago. Voices rise to accompany the soothing sound of Jehan’s playing in uncoordinated unison that would probably sound unpleasant, had they all been completely sober.

The flute dies down eventually. Grantaire is not sure when. He feels as if he’s been sleeping with his eyes open. There’s numbness in his muscles and his mind provided by the alcohol. The heaviness in his eyes won’t go away. Unconsciousness has almost taken complete control of him when there’s a loud, harsh sound in his left ear. His eyes shoot open to find Enjolras bending toward him.

“Did you just slap me?” Grantaire’s voice is rough as he speaks.

“Only slightly.” Enjolras says. “I’m going to call it a night. Are you coming?”

Such a question, in such a numb state requires a while to sink in. Grantaire regards Enjolras with lost eyes for a long moment. Apollo stares back with an expectant expression, patiently awaiting Grantaire’s response.

“Oh, yes. Yeah.” Grantaire says when it dawns on him what Enjolras means; that he is going to sleep in his king-size tent with him. He coughs and nods before struggling to get himself to a standing position. There is only time to register that the bottle in his hand is empty before Enjolras is yanking it off his hand and throwing it into the litter.

Grantaire follows behind Enjolras toward the tent, stumbling his way there. The ground is bumpy, with tree roots and bodies lying down on it. He almost falls over Éponine, who helps him back up and winks at him knowingly. He’s not sober or awake enough to react to it, though.

“That is your room.” Enjolras says once they are inside, pointing at the unzipped “door”.

“Yeah, _room_. Thanks, man.”

Enjolras choses to overlook the sarcastic tone in Grantaire voice. He nods politely in Grantaire’s direction and then he’s gone inside his room. 

Combeferre’s sleeping bag is right where Grantaire left it, beside it his backpack and his guitar case. As he crawls inside, a dim light illuminates Enjolras’ side, silhouetting his body as he is changing to his sleeping clothes. It’s torturous for Grantaire to see it as it happens, being allowed to see the shapes and hear the sounds, but never actually _see_. The fact that Enjolras does none of it on purpose only serves to aggravate Grantaire’s state. He is no longer sleepy or numb. On the contrary, he feels every nerve in his body, hears his pulse quicken in his ear, holds onto his own body with hands that long to touch skin that is unlike his own, or any other that his hands have ever touched before.

Enjolras makes feeble noises as he tears his shirt off. The noises from his throat and the ones that are the result of skin colliding against skin are all Grantaire can hear, while in his head he imagines what he would be seeing if that curtain of plastic was not between them.

Grantaire feels a once in a lifetime moment slip from his grasp when Enjolras turns off the light. He wants to rewind time instantly. It was the kind of torture that you grow addicted to, that leaves you feeling its absence once it stops. He’s completely awake now, aware of Enjolras’ presence so near him. He hears Apollo’s breathing, uneven but soothing, suggesting that he is still awake. At the same time, Grantaire is being assaulted by his thoughts. The silence is heavy, despite the fact that none of them is expected to be talking at all, and that outside others make noise. Yet that is but background noise that Grantaire hears only if he chooses to. He doesn’t. There’s only Grantaire and Enjolras right now. The sound of their breathing and Grantaire’s heart thumping against his chest, so loud that he wonders if Enjolras can hear it too.

Sheep, Grantaire thinks. One. Two. Three. Fo—

“Are you asleep?” The unexpectedness of Enjolras’ voice makes Grantaire’s heart skip a beat. He speaks in a tone that is hushed, private and stripped of its usual confidence.

“I thought you were above that question, Apollo.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says immediately after. “Goodnight.”

But Grantaire needs to know what Enjolras means to tell him now. There is no way he is going to let him out of this one.

“No, it’s fine. I wasn’t.” He says.

Enjolras doesn’t say anything for a long while. His breathing quietens down to the point that Grantaire can hardly hear it. There’s silence and Grantaire thinks he will not say anything else.

“Did you really mean what you said today?” Enjolras finally says. “Do you really think there aren’t things in this world worth fighting for?” Once the words are out, Grantaire wonders how he did not guess this was what he wanted to ask all along.

The yellow blurs of the lights from outside hanging from the trees are the only thing Grantaire can see. He cannot see Enjolras or his silhouette, he cannot even picture him as he speaks because somehow the tight features and unwavering look so familiar in Enjolras’ eyes does not fit this situation.

Because it’s Enjolras asking, Grantaire gives the question some thought. Or he tries too. His head is a bundle of thoughts that go from indecent, to deep, to self-destructive. He cannot sort through them.

“Yeah…” it’s the only answer he can produce, in a weak voice.

This time, Enjolras speaks instantly after.

“You believe in nothing?”

Grantaire wants to reply, but no voice comes out of his mouth. If Enjolras had asked that question a few days ago he would not have hesitated before saying no. But now Grantaire falters. Things are not as clear as they used to be, and he hates it as much as he desperately needs it.

Silence is his only reply, one that does not satisfy the other man. Enjolras sighs after it becomes clear he will not be given an answer, and that is the last sign he gives of being awake. Soon, his breathing becomes even. He is asleep, ever the opposite of Grantaire, who is more awake than he was during the day. Counting sheep will do nothing for him now. He’s alone with his thoughts and the sounds of people in the distance. He focuses on their sounds, trying to escape his thoughts. Outside, late nighters become early morning people. The sun has not showed up on the horizon yet when Grantaire gets his guitar and crawls out of the tent.

As he does not want to wake anyone, he walks away from where all the others sleep. He looks for a secluded place and finds it not a long way away. It’s beyond the camping site, a sort of clearing. There are trees up ahead and behind him, but there’s a clear spot for him to seat with his guitar without bothering anyone. He does just that, unsurprised when he starts playing and it is still as hard to hear as before. It’s more of a battle with a guitar than it is playing the instrument.

Later, when he’s giving it a break to recharge his batteries, a familiar figure appears in the distance. Slowly, he realizes it is Jehan, walking towards him, coming from the woods that go further away from the camping site. The boy has a certain pep in his step that is rare at such an early hour in the morning.  As he gets closer, Grantaire sees that he is holding white and violet of flowers in his hand, some of them tangled in his short braid.

“You’re practicing?” He asks once he’s reached Grantaire.

Grantaire shakes his head “Torturing my ears.”

Jehan chuckles and hands a flower to Grantaire. He declines with a shake of his hand.

“Let’s go. We need to get ready to leave for the city. Courf takes an hour just to wake up.” Jehan is walking away as he says this. He stops once he realizes Grantaire is not following him. “Aren’t you coming?”

“No. You guys go. I need to practice.” Grantaire picks up his guitar again and plays a chord.

“But…” Jehan trails off. He grimaces but says no more. Without the previous pep in his step, Jehan bows his head and leaves.

A considerable amount of time goes by. Grantaire is so used to his playing that he cannot even tell anymore if it’s still as bad as it was when he started playing at dawn. He thinks they must’ve left by now, but then he sees a golden head of hair in the distance on a body that walks with grace. It’s Enjolras, heading in his direction. He is dressed in denim trousers and a red shirt that embraces his torso in ways that should be forbidden, his reading glasses hanging from the collar. Immediately Grantaire loses the concentration in and stops playing with a wail of his guitar.

“I thought you would’ve left by now.” Grantaire says when Enjolras is within hearing distance.

“Courfeyrac is still getting ready.” Enjolras says.

“Of course.” Grantaire scoffs.

“They’ve sent me to convince you to come along with us, but from what I hear, maybe you should stay and practice.” Enjolras stands in front of Grantaire, shadowing him from the sun, while Grantaire seats on the ground. Enjolras has his hands dangling at his sides, as if at a loss to what to do with them.

“Yeah.” He settles the guitar down at his feet. “Why’d they send _you_?”

“I thought because of my abilities of persuasion. But they made sure I understood that I was not to use my usual “method”,” Enjolras actually air quotes.

“What method is that?”

“Giving you an intellectual speech about all the ways that coming with us will benefit your life both in the long run and in short term.” He settles his hands on his hips.

“Whose idea was this?” Grantaire asks.

“’Ponine’s.”

Grantaire laughs and Enjolras quirks an eyebrow in question.

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“Tons.” When Grantaire stops chuckling, his lips settle in a smirk. Enjolras rolls his eyes at the reply. “Why do they want me to go anyway?”

“They see you as a friend. And we don’t let friends say ‘no’, remember?” There’s a knowing smile in Enjolras lips now.

“They’ve known me for two days.”

“Courfeyrac had just met Éponine when he offered her a room in his flat.”

“So you have a habit of picking up strays?” Grantaire crosses his arms over his chest.

“We have a habit of lending a hand to those who need it.” Enjolras corrects him. “You know what, I’m starting to think all this practice is of no use, not as long as you remain faithless.”

“Don’t start with the speech, Enjolras. You’re forbidden.” Grantaire says, only slightly annoyed.

Enjolras continues as if Grantaire never spoke. “I’m not saying you won’t be able to play until you’ve stopped being the cynic that you are – as much as I wish you would. I’m just saying you need… a muse. I believe that is the best way to put it.”

“Who says I don’t already have one?” Grantaire regards Enjolras, uncrossing his arms.

“You do, then?” Enjolras seems genuinely curious.

Grantaire smiles in lieu of answer. Enjolras shifts his weight from one foot to another.

“I’ll make it easy for you. I’ll go if you show me your hidden talent.”

There’s a light flush growing in Enjolras’ cheeks. He looks away, pretends to contemplate the sky for a moment.

“I can’t do that. Ask me anything else.” He says.

The thoughts that go through Grantaire at those words are many, and most of them involve the two of them and a lot of touching on both parts. But he manages to push them away due to the improbability of their acceptance from Enjolras’ part.

“All right. I’ll go if you buy me a drink, then.” He says.

“If I buy you a drink? Do you not have Marius for that?” The sincerity in his puzzlement makes Grantaire want to laugh.

“I most certainly do _not_ have Marius for _that_.”

Enjolras tilts his head to the side.

“So Marius is not paying for you?”

“First of all, that just sounded dirty.” Grantaire says, and Enjolras frowns. “Second of all, will you or will you not buy me a drink? It’s a rather simple deal I am offering you here.”

“That’s why I don’t trust it.” Grantaire shrugs. “All right, then.” Enjolras says while extending a hand to Grantaire. He accepts it, thinking Enjolras means to cease the deal with a handshake and is surprised when he realizes Enjolras means to help him to his feet instead. And so Grantaire lets him.

They get back to the tents in silence. When they arrive, Éponine says “Told you it would work.” At her words, Marius hands her a bill with a resigned face and a grunt.

“Don’t worry, Pontmercy. One day you will win a bet. But that day is not today.” 


	3. First Times Pt. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they visit the city of Marseilles at last, and Courfeyrac finds a party while escaping the police. But more important are the first time experiences that happen in each place for Grantaire and Enjolras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only part one of chapter three, technically. Since it's almost 7000 words long and so much happens in it, I thought it would be wise to split in in two. 
> 
> We're almost at the end of Part II!
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy it and I will be forever thankful if you let me know of your thoughts in the comments!
> 
> P.S.: If any of you would like to follow me on tumblr for updates on the fic writing... http://poemsfromprouvaire.tumblr.com/ is me.
> 
> See you next chapter!

It’s the first time Grantaire has ever been to the city of Marseille. He’s been around a lot, once or twice in its outskirts, but never actually in the heart of the city. Just like Jehan tells them through sighs every hour or two, the city is beautiful. They make the most out of the time they have, conscious of the fact that Marseille is immense and that they will never be able to see everything they wish to see in only one day. However, there’s still plenty of time to see the places that they are more curious about.

In the morning, they go to _Palais Longchamp_. There, they marvel at the beautiful architecture and visit the Museum of Fine Arts within its grounds. Despite the lack of alcohol in his system, Grantaire is able to enjoy the visit to the museum as the half-assed artist that he is. In the afternoon, following a pause in the gardens of the _Palais_ to eat, they get in the van and head to _Le Panier_ , where Jehan buys a Polaroid Camera much like Cosette’s. He proceeds to spend the rest of the day taking pictures of everything he sees, wearing a smile of his lips.

From _Le Panier_ , they go wherever their feet take them.

Sunset arrives eventually, to the dismay of most of the group of friends. Jehan, particularly, is most irritated by this fact, whining about how the lack of sunlight will ruin his photographs now, not to mention that the museums are closing. But it comes all the same, and when the sunlight is completely replaced by street lamps, they find themselves in a beautiful square somewhere in the city. There's a great fountain at the very centre of the square. Water pours out of the vases of mermaids sculpted all around it. In the darkness of the night, lighted by the blue underwater lights, the mermaids seem to come to life. As Grantaire makes his way to the coffee shop on the other side of the road along with the others, he feels as if their eyes follow him. He looks back at them, finding their eyes on him (as well as Jehan taking multiple pictures of the fountain from all possible angles).

The boy doesn't see him, thoroughly immersed in his camera and the fountain as he is.

"Do you want something? A cup of coffee?" Courfeyrac asks once they reach the other side of the road and stop by the door of the coffee shop.

"What about that bottle of scotch you owe me?"

"They don't sell scotch in here," Courfeyrac glances over at Enjolras, who is still crossing the road. "Sorry about that, man. I didn't think he was going to say no."

"Yes you did."

"Yes I did." Courfeyrac nods with a smirk.

 "Make it two, then." Grantaire says.

Enjolras, who happens to pass by them at that precise moment, stops. He is nuzzled in his black coat, his hands deep in his pockets in order to shield his naked skin from the night breeze.  Grantaire likes the fact that he is still wearing his reading glasses. They complement his face perfectly.

"Two what?" Enjolras asks. Combeferre, who has been walking beside Enjolras, has his reading glasses on as well. Together, they look like an intellectual duo that no one in their right mind would ever wish to challenge. Yet, that is all Grantaire wants to do. But not with words, and not both of them. He wants to challenge Enjolras by teaching him the things that are to still unknown to him, that he seems so content to ignore.

Grantaire wants to kiss Enjolras. It doesn't matter if it's a long or ephemeral kiss. It doesn't matter whether it's here in front of his friends, in the middle of the street, or in a fancy hotel with petal roses and a bed. All that matters is that Grantaire should feel the lips of his Apollo on his, and that Enjolras should desire it.

"Two cups of coffee, what else?" Courfeyrac lies. He leaves with a furtive wink that Grantaire alone can see.

"Right,” Enjolras mutters.

To Grantaire's surprise, he doesn't leave immediately after Courfeyrac. For a few more moments he hangs back with Grantaire. Combeferre is no longer beside him, although Grantaire has no recollection of ever seeing him leave. The square is full of people, some of Enjolras' friends among them, but it's on Enjolras that Grantaire’s full attention resides. He adjusts the red beanie in his hair, unsure as to what to do. Enjolras' eyes are on him and it renders him incapable of any rational thought.

As Grantaire is learning, every moment alone with Enjolras is a fleeting one. This one is no different. One moment he's thoroughly alive with Enjolras's eyes on him, the next they're gone, the world around him darkens, and he is back to craving a drink.

The coffee stop is a small establishment that, with all seven of them inside, is filled to the brim. Grantaire waits for them at the door, fearing he would not fit inside if he wanted to. He sneaks his personal flask from the inside pocket of his jacket and downs the remaining liquid in one go. He was no recollection of the last time he'd filled the flask or with what. The liquid tastes sour but it fills the hole inside him that it is intended to fill just as effectively.

A couple of girls, clung to each other by the arms, look at him and smile as they walk by, and Grantaire finds himself hating the fact that he doesn't even notice what they look like or bothers to smile in return.

Out of alcohol, suddenly a cup of coffee is not so unwelcome. He looks inside the establishment through the glass windows and sees Courfeyrac is coming out with what he thinks is his cup of coffee. But when he gets through the door he hands Jehan the coffee instead. Grantaire just stares at them with arms crossed over his chest, unwilling to admit that he wanted the coffee.

"Lets go sit by the fountain," Jehan suggests. And so, as they file out of the coffee shop, they head toward the fountain. All expect Grantaire, who still stands by the door, waiting for Enjolras, who was last in line.

Grantaire alternates between watching Enjolras and his friends. While the former is making his order, the others are looking like they're about to stir some trouble. Courfeyrac has his legs inside the fountain, sneakers abandoned next to Jehan's feet whilst he drinks his coffee. Éponine is throwing water at a helpless Marius while Combeferre ignores all of them. But Joly is the trigger. Somehow uncaring about pneumonia for the first time since Grantaire has know him - which, he admits, isn't long, but still -, he _jumps_ into the fountain and sinks waist deep in it. Then he begins to throw water at all the others with intent.

Grantaire looks back at Enjolras and finds him coming through the door, struggling to balance two cups of coffee and two scones in his hands. Watching him struggle is amusing to Grantaire, but all the same he reaches out to help him with eyebrows quirked in puzzlement. Enjolras is all too eager to hand him one of each - a cup of coffee and a scone.

"Your drink," Enjolras nods at the cup of coffee. "And something for you to eat because I never see you do that."

Torn between scowling (because this was not the kind of drink he wanted when he made the deal and Enjolras is well aware of that) and grinning (because Enjolras actually _paid_ for his drink and seems worried about his poor eating habits), Grantaire holds onto Enjolras's offerings. Eventually he gives in to the latter, foolishly displaying his contentment through a grin that Enjolras does not return but doesn't repel either.

They don't walk side by side to the fountain. Enjolras goes ahead of him as it takes Grantaire a while to follow. For this reason, Enjolras is the one who falls victim to Courfeyrac. All the others are inside the fountain by now, soaked from head to toe. The water doesn't look crystal clear. It gleams in tones of green, the bottom is almost impossible to see, and Grantaire is pretty sure it's also the home of many fish. However, they seem as unperturbed by this as they are of the dirty looks passers-by throw their way.

Although only seated at the fountain now, Combeferre is completely soaked as he smiles at Enjolras. The attention of his friend distracts him enough that Courfeyrac is able to reach out with his wet hands and pull Enjolras dangerously close to the water. His scone flies out of his hand in the process and lands on the water, but the cup of coffee is still in Enjolras's grip. He gets it as far away from the water and Courfeyrac as he possibly can while trying his best to fight Courfeyrac's hold on him.

Grantaire almost spits out the scone he is eating as he watches the scene unfold. Jehan comes to Courfeyrac's rescue, to Enjolras's dismay, and he turns ruby red in the face from the force he's using to resist his two friends. Courfeyrac wriggles his eyebrows at Grantaire in a way that tells Grantaire what to do without ever having to utter a word.

There's no need to watch his steps. Enjolras is so focused on fighting off Courfeyrac and saving his drink that he never notices Grantaire coming. He has forgotten Grantaire for the time being, and taking advantage of that, the ignored comes up behind him and slips the cup of coffee onto his own free hand. The loss of his prized possession in such an unexpected manner catches Enjolras by surprise. He loses control of his focus for one brief moment, but that is all it takes for Grantaire to throw him into the water. He falls face first, and then Courfeyrac pulls the rest of his body inside.

But be it as it may, Enjolras's coffee is destined to meet the same faith as his scone. It happens in a similar fashion. When Enjolras rises out of the water, he does so with an incredible grace and fury, living up to his God standard. And it's this way that he renders himself vulnerable to other's treachery. It's a less admirable way, but it fits Grantaire like a glove.

He's already half soaking wet from the water that Enjolras throws his way as he rises to the surface, but that makes him no more prepared for what comes next. And what comes next is his face being thrown deep into the water as Enjolras repays the favour in kind - in no way whatsoever unpredictably so. As he had been gaping at the God, he not only gulps on that filthy water as he dives in but he also breathes it in. It feels as if his lungs have stopped working because for the remainder of the time Enjolras holds him underwater, his eyes wide open to an immense blur of green, he can feel the water burning his airways and his throat but he cannot breathe.

Rather than being pushed out of the water, he is _yanked._ The first thing he does when he reaches the surface is to breathe in as much air as he possibly can. It's something his body does instinctively, unaware of it's consequences. The air is fire entering his system.

"Grantaire!" He hears Jehan's voice exclaiming.

"Too far, man." Comes Combeferre's, small and almost inaudible, clearly directed at Enjolras.

He wants to say he is fine because Jehan sounds worried, but he cannot talk due to the successive coughs he is unable to stop. His eyes feel uncomfortable too, but seeing as it's nighttime and the light outside is dim, he grows used to it almost instantly. Grantaire sees he is surrounded by not only Jehan and Combeferre but also Joly, who are all holding him up, despite the fact that he doesn't need them to. Enjolras is behind them, looking hard at Grantaire as if trying to decipher him.

"Perhaps we should go to the hospital. He looks like he ingested a lot of this water and not only is that unhealthy on its own but I'm also pretty sure the amount of germs and bacteria in this water is incalculable." Joly says.

"I'm fine," Grantaire manages to say. "I'm fine," He repeats through coughs.

"Are you, really?" Jehan asks.

Grantaire nods.

"I still say we go to the hospital. This was one of my poorest ideas ever. I would like to run some tests on myself as well. I think I'm stating to--" He stops for a moment, then proceeds in a dismayed voice while making some weird gestures with his hands. "--feel indisposed."

Grantaire is utterly ignorant to the purpose of Joly's hand movements, but all the others perk up once he starts making them, so Grantaire deduces they have a meaning. He's certain that they're the reason all their smiles fade away and they stop what they're doing.

While others look toward something in the distance, Enjolras approaches him.

"Can you run?" He asks in a hurried voice.

"Yes."

"Then..." He pauses, looks up at Joly, and then says: " _Run!_ "

At his word everyone flees the fountain. They don't run as Enjolras says, they _sprint_. Grantaire has but a second to glance backward and see a blur of blue before Enjolras is pushing him forward from behind, his hands on Grantaire's shoulders. It's enough time for Grantaire to learn what is happening.

The police are chasing them. He would've never pegged any of them for young offenders, especially righteous Enjolras. But he's familiar with his, having had his own run-ins with the law once or twice before.

So he runs. He doesn't sprint because he can't. He's still coughing and the running is keeping his lungs from healing. Enjolras stays behind him all the way, pushing him to run faster. Grantaire knows Enjolras could leave him behind if he wanted to, lean and young as he is. But he doesn't because by now he must've figured out Grantaire was not faking it this time. He sticks by Grantaire because he must feel guilty.

_Let him_ , Grantaire thinks.

The fountain square is left behind in favour of narrow streets that are unknown to them. Courfeyrac leads them as they go from one street to another, passing dark alleys, waking up the homeless. The police follow close behind them, getting closer and closer to Enjolras and Grantaire while the latter begins to slow down his pace unwillingly, his lungs struggling to process the air he inhales. Enjolras must notice Grantaire's affliction almost immediately because he begins to push Grantaire forward with more strength, practically carrying all his weight. But it only slows them down even more.

"Courf!" He shouts, and the man looks back at Enjolras without stopping his run. Instead of speaking, Enjolras says something to Courfeyrac through his hands, just like Joly had done minutes ago.

Courfeyrac nods.

Unexpectedly, Grantaire is yanked by the collar of his shirt. Enjolras leads him to take a turn that the others did not, isolating them both from the rest of his group of friends. They keep running, but when Grantaire looks back he sees the two policemen are not following them.

He stops running then, so abruptly that Enjolras trips on his own feet due to the hand that was still clinging to Grantaire's collar. He lets go and inspects their surroundings, making sure they are well and truly alone in that alley. Grantaire leans a hand against the wall and there he deposits all of his weight while he coughs repeatedly. Now that he has stopped running, it feels worse. His head throbs and he has to close his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, he finds he is seating on the ground, leaning against the wall with his back.

There's only a dim streetlamp some distance away from them that reflects its yellow light in the damp ground. The air smells of rust and piss and his own sweat. Grantaire fucking stinks, but he reckons it's a good thing that he can at least smell again. With that thought in mind, he lets his head fall down on his knees. His eyes see nothing but he listens to Enjolras' heavy breathing.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras breathes out. There's genuine worry in his voice yet Grantaire cannot bring himself to reassure him. Enjolras hadn't done anything wrong, precisely, but that didn't mean Grantaire didn't struggle to breathe even now. All because stubborn, stupid Apollo wanted revenge.

He hears rather than sees Enjolras step closer. The sound of fabric scraping against fabric tells Grantaire Enjolras has crouched down to his level. And then a hand settles on his hair, gentle and tentative, as if unsure it ought to be there. It tries to get Grantaire to raise his head, to no avail. Grantaire thinks Enjolras’s hand belongs right there. The touch is warm despite not being in direct contact with Grantaire's skin, caressing despite being immobilized. Grantaire is willing to remain positioned that way forever if only the hand will stay as well.

Alas, it does not. And it's only once it leaves Grantaire that he lifts his head and meets Enjolras' gaze. The other man is intimately close to him now, his breath warming the flushed skin on Grantaire's face.

"Grantaire, are you all right?" Enjolras asks earnestly.

There's so much of Enjolras Grantaire can see at such a short distance that he barely hears the rough voice that comes out of Enjolras's mouth. He doesn't know where to begin contemplating, which aspect of Enjolras he should take in first. Everything about him is to Grantaire equally interesting. As a consequence, his eyes wander about every inch of the face in front of him, contributing to his constipated appearance. That must be why Enjolras reaches out with a worried hand.

"Yes, I'm fine," Despite the desire to feel it on him again, Grantaire's own stubbornness has him slap it away. "Not thanks to you, dick."

Enjolras takes in the insult. Not long after it has been slapped, the hand is back again, and this time Grantaire has absolutely no intention of pushing it away again.

Tentatively at first, Enjolras uses the hand to help him inspect Grantaire's eyes. Then he sets it on Grantaire's jaw to further inspect his face. But it's only when it rests on Grantaire's chest, where his heart is beating faster and faster, that Grantaire feels his breath escape him for reasons that have nothing to do with the evenings mischiefs at the fountain. It's sure as it stays there feeling Grantaire's lungs contract and his heart race. He doesn't know how he manages to not run after Enjolras's hand once it leaves him.

"Your breathing will slow down once you've rested for a while and your heart should do the same," Enjolras says with a nod. A moment goes by wherein Grantaire raises his eyes to meet Enjolras's, only to lower them again the next. As he does so, he sees Enjolras put a hand on his own chest. "Are you not used to running? Your heart is beating much faster than mine."

"There are plenty of other things that can increase a man's heartbeat, Enjolras." Grantaire smiles.

Perhaps this time he gets the true meaning in Grantaire's words. There's a flush in his cheeks before he turns away from Grantaire, he is sure he did not imagine it.

Inhaling and exhaling becomes easier as he rests in silence while Enjolras looks away towards where they'd come from.

"How did you not see it coming?" Enjolras asks. "You should've known, from what happened in the showers yesterday, that I would respond in kind."

"Well I knew you would. Only I wasn't prepared for you to come out of the water looking like fucking _Thor_." Grantaire lets his arms fall down in resignation. "I just needed a moment to regain control of my senses and limbs, which you didn't give me." He says.

Enjolras jumps to question: "Thor? Not Apollo?" He is half smiling.

"Not in that moment. You're back to being Apollo now."

Enjolras flumps down on the ground in front of Grantaire and envelops his arms around his legs.

"Well, you, uh... you came out of the water looking like--"

"Like death." Grantaire interjects, making Enjolras chuckle. The sound resonates all around them and it makes Grantaire smile when he looks back at Enjolras. His eyes remind him of that night at the beach, black pools that shimmer in an equal fashion, intent and consuming. Only something is different. The lines that complement his eyes are thinner and kinder. Grantaire feels welcome as he stares, and it's a feeling he never wishes to cease. But it makes no sense. How can Enjolras accept him and welcome him now, after Grantaire has disdained his beliefs and showed him how different they are from each other? How can he care if Grantaire is unwell or not?

He remembers the first time Enjolras lied to him in the van, how genuine and true his false words had sounded. That must be it, he thinks. Enjolras only tolerates him, but he is good at pretending otherwise. Grantaire should be strong enough to call him out on it. For a moment his chest fills up with determination.

He only has to look at Enjolras' eyes to lose it completely.

"Why do you keep comparing me to Gods?" Enjolras asks then. He has only to talk and now Grantaire is willing to indulge in the lie. It makes him feel good. There's warmth in his chest that he has not felt for a long time now, one that not even the flame of the alcohol can match.

"Because you're _you_."

Enjolras tilts his head. "But what of me suggests that I am anything other than human? I am just like everyone else." He says.

"You're not like anyone I have ever known." Grantaire dares to lean in even closer, wanting Enjolras to hear his him with absolute clarity. Enjolras looks as if the words are foreign to him, a concept he does not understand. "I could tell you all about how you look as beautiful as they say the Gods were, but I think you know that already."

"That's nonsense."

"But that's just foreplay." Grantaire goes on. "Your confidence in your values and your beliefs is unlike any other. You're hopeful. You expect the best of people. I have insulted your beliefs and still you worry about my eating habits and my heartbeat. I gave you one of my best sceptic speeches and you still hoped I would not be completely faithless."

Enjolras leans back, putting some distance between them. For the first time, since Grantaire has known him, Enjolras lets his eyes fall to the ground. His cheeks gain a shade of pink. Taken aback, he says nothing. Nervous and regretting his words already, Grantaire stays silent.

He waits for Enjolras to react.

"Has no one ever believed in you before?" Enjolras finally says. Again he reaches with a tentative hand to rest on Grantaire's naked arm. The other man looks down at it, both in wonder and in an attempt to escape Enjolras's searching gaze. He gulps down on his own saliva, wetting his suddenly dry throat. Despite wanting to face Enjolras, because otherwise his show of weakness will be the answer his words won’t have to say, he finds it is physically impossible for him to do so. He cannot look away from Enjolras's hand. That warmth that prods his heart on, makes it beat not at a normal pace, but at the right one.

 Enjolras clears his throat. "You've rested enough. We should go." He says.

"Go where?" Grantaire mutters.

"To the van. To meet up with the others." Enjolras tells him as he gets up on his feet.

_Oh_ , Grantaire thinks.

He'd forgotten all about the others.

 

 

 

*             *          *

 

 

“I didn’t know you would be so well versed in the art of fleeing the police,” Grantaire breaks the silence that had settled between them as Enjolras is trying to find their way back to the van without giving it away that they are basically lost. “I mean, hand gestures and everything… You guys are pros.”

They have been going from one almost deserted street to another, searching for the square they had fled from in the first place. Enjolras takes another turn and Grantaire follows behind him.

“We’re a group of activists. We go out of our way to protest against oppression and injustice. When you do that, others will try to shut you up. You have to learn how to escape them.” Enjolras focuses on his surroundings as he speaks. “Finally! I know the way from here.” He says then, and Grantaire sees they have finally found the square.

“So you’ve been arrested before?”

They walk at a faster pace now that they know where they’re going.

Enjolras nods. “Twice. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

They fall into silence again, and this time it lasts until they approach the van. By then Grantaire cannot feel his feet any longer. They have been endlessly walking since the early morning, and he’s dreaming of a bed with his eyes open. However, the damage to his lungs and airways done from the incident at the fountain appears to be completely healed by now, so he doesn’t complain.

Marius is the only living soul by the van. He is walking back and forth from one end of the van to the other with his head in his hands, frantically pulling at his hair. Upon a shorter distance from the boy, Grantaire can hear him muttering under his breath.

“Marius?”

Enjolras’s voice makes the boy jump straight, coming off of his distressed state with wide eyes. He stays that way for a moment. Then he’s grinning widely, his white teeth showing.

“Thank God! I was _so_ worried about you two, you have no idea! Courf left me to watch out for you and then you were taking ages to come back, I thought the cops had caught you. I was just about to go to the police station!” Marius seems to still me in a bit of frenzy, the way he flails his arms around and shifts his weight as he talks.

“That would’ve been unwise.” Enjolras says.

“By unwise, he means stupid. How do you have him in your revolution?” Grantaire says, but he regrets his words almost immediately after he speaks them. Marius looks wounded, if the fall of his eyes is anything to go by, and Enjolras is unimpressed.

“Marius might not be as smart as the others, or the most committed, but he is brave and his heart is in the right place. I value his presence in my _revolution_ , as you say.” This seems to bring the life back to Marius. “Thank you for waiting for us, Marius. Where is everyone?” Enjolras asks.

Pontmercy exhibits a grin that is, in its every aspect, a replica of one of Courfeyrac’s. “Courf found a party,” is what he says after he’s managed make Grantaire feel slightly uncomfortable.

“How…” Enjolras starts, but then he must think better of it because he raises a hand to stop Marius from replying. “Never mind, I don’t think I want to know.”

“I do.” Grantaire says in a challenging voice. Enjolras rolls his eyes.

Marius tells him all about their adventure through the streets of Marseilles after Enjolras and Grantaire left them. He tells him about how they genuinely thought they were all done for, being chased through thick and thin. They only found an escape when Courfeyrac decided to lead them inside a house that happened to have its front door open.

“It was open because they were about to leave for this party. But they hid us inside anyway. And then they invited us to go to the party with them. I think it was all because this one girl was really into Jehan.”

Marius parks the van in the middle of a clearing that is filled with other cars, carelessly parked next to each other. There’s no party in sight, which suggests that they will have to walk to it, something that Grantaire is already dreading before he has even lifted his bum from his seat. As it turns out, they don’t have to walk for long. The sound of loud music enters his ears as soon as he opens the doors of Jehan’s van.

The party itself is inside what appears to be an abandoned mansion. From the outside, at least, the house is grim. It’s dark grey bricks are tearing from the walls, wild weeds and flowers growing in it’s place. Beneath Grantaire’s feet the ground too is made of wild weeds and dying flowers. There is no other house in the vicinity, or any other sign of life, for that matter. It is the perfect place to throw a party.

The house is as dead outside as it is alive inside. The very walls pulsate with the infinite vivacity of youth as well as the music. There are people everywhere, clinging to each other or their cup of drink, dancing and moving. Barely any furniture occupies the space inside the open rooms, but the essentials are there: the occasional couch and the bar. It is to the latter that Grantaire heads, only bothering to see whether Marius and Enjolras follow him once his hands are grasping a tumbler with whatever punch it is they offer him. The other two are lost amongst the throng of people, just like the familiar faces of their friends. By himself, Grantaire stays leaning against the bar, nursing drink after drink. The hours pass and he loses track of time, becoming more and more adrift in inebriation. It’s been a long while (or maybe not that long at all) when he spots Enjolras again. He’s drank enough to begin losing his inhibitions and free himself of the burden of caring by now. Yet still he cannot bring himself to approach Enjolras at once. No, he hesitates. And it is in this hesitation that he notices something peculiar happening.

A girl is approaching Enjolras. This is, obviously, not the peculiar thing about the scenario. Grantaire is sure this must be anything but the first time Enjolras has turned a hungry-eyed girl down tonight. The peculiarity about the scene unfolding before Grantaire’s eyes resides in where and with whom the girl was before she approached Enjolras. Grantaire knows the faces of the young men that she has been talking to, and their malevolent smirks and laughs. They’re the Surfer Kens from last night, the ones who had tagged along with the girls they met on their way back from the showers, Brunette included. Yet this girl hadn’t been one of them. She is new, but every bit as pleasing to the eye. She shares the same hair colour with Enjolras, and her walk is just as confident as the activist’s.

Attractive traits or not, Enjolras turns her down, just as he turns down the other two girls that the same guys send his way. This is what is so peculiar. Why would they be so invested in getting Enjolras laid? The question has Grantaire approaching the group of young troublemakers from behind, careful not to make his presence known. Behind a pillar that is right next to them, Grantaire listens.

And he is filled with anger as he does so. Every word they speak makes his blood boil even hotter in his veins. That they are able to make him _care_ about anything with this much alcohol in his system is already extraordinary. The fact that they have managed to make him care _this much_ is a feat unlike any other. He even feels himself sober up.

Resolute, he strides over to where Enjolras is seated at the only couch in the room, nursing his own tumbler of drink in his hands.  Grantaire sits down beside Apollo, grabbing his attention by shifting the weight of the pillows with his body. Enjolras does not appear to be surprised to see him. He concedes a look towards Grantaire before he’s ready to go back to his own head.

Grantaire speaks before he can, though.

“Remember those guys from last night who came and played games with us?” He asks, to which Enjolras nods. “They’re right behind you. Don’t look! They’ve been saying some things about you that are so insulting to your dear Equality that even I was offended.”

This seems to earn Enjolras’s full attention, just as Grantaire predicted.

“What did they say?” Enjolras inquires, leaning closer to Grantaire, elbow in his leg. He doesn’t look back at the subjects of the conversation, showing a kind of restraint Grantaire admires in silence.

“I have a plan,” Grantaire deflects, unwilling to share the dirty details with Enjolras, who he thinks does not and will never be deserving of the disdain and mockery that was directed at him by those dicks. “If you would like to help be get back at them…”

Enjolras leans back against the couch, his arm disappearing behind it while the other settles his tumbler of drink on top of one leg. In this carefree position, he inspects Grantaire from head to foot. Then, once he’s made his full assessment, he asks: “How much have you had to drink today?”

“A flask of something I am pretty sure was whiskey, a few glasses of punch and a beer. Nothing that I can’t handle.”

No reply comes out of Enjolras’s mouth, but his eyebrows quirk in a way that asks “really?” without any need to talk.

“Are you in?”

“What did they say?” Enjolras repeats his previous question.

Grantaire bites his lip, reluctant to answer but well aware that Enjolras will never concede to help him in his plan if he doesn’t know what he’s fighting against.

“They sent the last three girls who came to you on purpose. They were testing you. Since you turned down Anne – I assume that’s the hot brunette from yesterday--“

“Yes, that is her name.”

“—Who wanted to get in your pants. Apparently no straight guy could ever resist her infallible charms, so they have come to a conclusion: you either have _no_ cock, or you _like_ cock. Both seem to amuse them as much as they repulse them, and there is no limit to the filth that is coming out of their mouths.” Grantaire confesses.

Enjolras takes it all in attentively, showing no sign of anger in his face other than the slight twitch of his lips that no one but Grantaire would ever notice. He knows it before Enjolras speaks, but it is still terribly pleasant to hear him say, “I’m in.”

Grantaire smiles genuinely. A touch of the previous inebriation returns to him, granting Enjolras a shimmer and Grantaire a boldness that neither of them had a moment ago.

“What exactly is your plan?” Enjolras asks.

“Just follow my lead.” Grantaire shifts closer to Enjolras, who shifts away in turn, looking at the half drunk man in front of him with stubbornness. Grantaire focuses on Enjolras’s eyes and hopes his will show the sincerity he feels. “Trust me.” He pleads.

Enjolras opens his mouth, seems about ready to protest. But then he stops abruptly, and says, “Fine.”

The plan had come to Grantaire with not much need for reflection. In his drunken stupor he always was his most creative self. Perhaps he should’ve tried playing his guitar with more alcohol in his veins than what he had the last two times he’d played it. Just like now. As it was, he didn’t waste much time thinking about anything that wasn’t Enjolras at present. The anticipation caused his hands to tremble only slightly, and his eyes to lower down to Enjolras’s collarbone.

“Look over at them and smile.” Grantaire orders. Enjolras does as he is told with no objections. “Now, whatever I do, don’t jump away from me, or flinch, or slap me, otherwise you’ll have laid it all to waste. I promise I will not cross any lines you don’t want crossed!” Grantaire says once Enjolras has frowned in a weary manner.

Grantaire ambles closer to the blond man in front of him, and closer still. He only stops once the lengths of their upper legs are touching each other. The loss of personal space has Enjolras leaning back just slightly.

“Now look at me and smile.” Grantaire says.

Enjolras obeys.

“Not so fake. No one’s going to believe that’s real, not even from a distance.” Grantaire does as he instructs Enjolras, his own lips smiling as he speaks, eyes intent on the other man. It’s no hard work appearing as if he’s intoxicated with Enjolras. In fact it’s no work at all. It’s the truth.

Attempt two hits the nail in the head. Enjolras’s smile is so bright, so genuine that it makes Grantaire lose his breath for a second. He knows it’s only a façade in his head, but his heart remains ignorant, and it loves the way Enjolras is regarding him now. He almost – _almost_ – believes it’s real. Enjolras is laying out a trap for him without even knowing.

“Remember, just go with it.” He tells Enjolras, who is looking at him with the same smile and intent but also a hesitance in his stance.

Grantaire takes a moment to contemplate the ivory skin he is about to touch, the anticipation almost too much for him to handle. Enjolras’s shirt is loose around his collarbone, leaving his neck unprotected. The skin there is a mixture of ivory and blue and red, due to the dim lights of the party. It grants a more enigmatic quality to the both of them, an intimacy that fuels Grantaire’s boldness forward, and with that, his lips. He makes a mental note to remember not to lose control.

Then he is kissing Enjolras’s exposed neck. The feel of Enjolras’s skin finally on his lips is heavenly on its own, able to send shocks of frenzy down Grantaire’s body. But the sound that comes out of Enjolras’ mouth when lips meet neck makes Grantaire experience a feeling he has never experienced before. The sound is caught between a gasp and a moan, followed by a full body shudder. For the duration of that sound alone, Grantaire is caught in the illusion that he has Enjolras under his complete control; that he could dare to kiss his lips and Enjolras would not even flinch.

The moment is over shortly after it began and Grantaire misses his chance. He loses track of what he is supposed to be doing after that. There’s only enough rational thought in his head to tell him to keep kissing Enjolras, and even that can hardly be called rational. Grantaire kisses Enjolras’s neck down to his collarbone and back up to his ear, only pausing in his trail when Enjolras’s hand envelops his wrist, where Grantaire is holding the other side of Enjolras’ neck with as much softness as he can muster.

The curve that connects Enjolras’s neck and his jaw quickly becomes Grantaire’s favourite place to kiss. He even dares to caress the skin there with a whisper of his lips, in an up and down rhythm that despite not being able to produce another sound from Enjolras, creates goose bumps on his skin. It makes Grantaire smile through his kisses.

He becomes as drunk on Enjolras as he is drunk on alcohol.

Grantaire lowers his hand from Enjolras’s neck to his chest. It stops over Apollo’s heart and feels it beating at a wild pace.

“Grantaire…” Enjolras whispers then. The unexpected roughness of his voice coupled with the movement of his throat as he speaks, that Grantaire feels closely on his lips, have him tearing at the seams. He has never felt so aroused in his life. Grantaire dares not move any limb from the waist down, in fear that Enjolras will feel it.

“I think it’s working.” Enjolras’s voice is back to normal.

Grantaire nods and reluctantly lets go of Enjolras. In a feeble attempt to hide his arousal, he crosses his legs. He cannot look Enjolras in the eye, so he looks at his lips. What a terrible decision that is, since he catches Enjolras licking them. Then they press against each other fiercely.

“They’re looking thoroughly disgusted.” Grantaire looks over to the four young men, who are grimacing at each other and glaring at them for afar. Indeed they do. “Good.” Enjolras says.

What happens next, happens suddenly and is over so fast that Grantaire has neither the time to savour it nor to close his eyes. But it happens all the same.

Enjolras kisses Grantaire’s mouth.


	4. Muse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Enjolras's kiss leads them to hide in an abandoned room (and a love confession). The aftermath of what happens in that room leads them to a hotel (and the answer Grantaire's been looking for).
> 
> We find out what is Enjolras's hidden talent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After that cliffhanger, we meet again! Welcome to the last chapter of part ii. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, and that it is not disappointing.
> 
> (please take it into account that I haven't read their part of the book yet when you read Grantaire's backstory, as I don't know if the book contradicts it.)

Trouble approaches them in the form of four young men, as a pride of lions would its prey. Gone are the traces of amusement that lived in their faces as they jeered and mocked Enjolras before Grantaire had put his plan to action, and Enjolras had seen it through. There’s not much to say about these four young men. Their strongest personality traits have been already shown. They are all as alike in their personalities as they are in their bulky appearance and that ruthless glint in their eyes proper of one who only cares about scratching their itch for trouble.

The tallest one leads the other three behind him, suggesting he is the leader of their little group of bullies. Grantaire watches them intently, recalling how his instincts had been right all along. He’s still reeling from the recent touch of divine lips on his to properly feel the trouble they are in, alcohol still in his veins. But, despite his stupor, there is a hint if _something_ creeping up his spine that leads him to look to Enjolras for comfort.

The hand that had been in Grantaire’s very own hair minutes before is now in the blond man’s leg, tensed into a fist that Enjolras keeps contracting and relaxing in a manner not unlike a man’s breathing chest. He doesn’t go to any more lengths to show his distress. If Grantaire refrains from looking down and only concentrates on the marble face of his Apollo, he meets the comfort he seeks. Enjolras is unwavering in his relaxed features. There’s even a small smile in his lips, one that he directs to the man seated beside him.

Grantaire doubts his face is as calm and resolute as Enjolras. Somehow, in his mind, he comes to the conclusion that being the first to speak will make up for it.

“Hello, boys!” He manages to greet them with a smile he hopes is not cringe-worthy in its falseness (it hurts his mouth). “Is there a problem?” Grantaire adds.

They exchange knowing looks between each other.

“Funny you should ask, because there _is_ one very big problem that I really want to get rid of.” Says the tallest one, who Grantaire has already assumed is the leader. He does not remember his name, something that he is particularly proud of. But he has a big pimple underneath his nose, so Grantaire takes it upon himself to call him Pimple.

Enjolras shifts around in his seat to better face Pimple.

“Can you explain the problem?” He says, again showing the perseverance of his patience.

“We were just back there appreciating the party – what a nice party, right?” Pimple asks more to his friends than to either Enjolras or Grantaire. His friends cheer in response.

“Personally, I think the punch could be better.” Grantaire chimes in.

The guy who stands next to Pimple, Chubby, as Grantaire has named him, bursts out a high-pitched, cruel laugh.

“Faggot thinks he’s funny!”

“No one asked for your opinion.” Says Pimple.

“I’m pretty sure you did. What else do you think asking questions is?” Grantaire is trying really hard not to let anger fill him up but it’s getting harder and harder by the second.

“Asking the opinion of people who aren’t faggots.”

Focused as he is in controlling his anger, Grantaire only notices Enjolras has a hand on his arm once he squeezes it, keeping Grantaire from being overwhelmed.

“The problem is you two and your gay shagging are disturbing the party. And I don’t like this kind of disturbance.” Pimple says.

Enjolras takes a moment to look at his surroundings. “I don’t see anyone else raising any objections.” He concludes.

“Do I look like I fucking care? It’s bothering me. So you’re going to get your other faggot friends and get the hell out of here,” Pimples looks about to explode. Grantaire reckons the fault is in Enjolras’ unruffled exterior. Hell hath no fury like a troublemaker ignored. “You’re all the fucking same.” He adds out of breath.

The abruptness with which Enjolras stands up startles even Grantaire. He is standing like an immovable force, a marble statue that has gone through thick and thin but still stands immaculate.

“Why does my kissing Grantaire bother you, exactly? It’s only a display of affection. Yet something tells me violence would not even make you flinch. Give me one good reason why it bothers you, and we’ll leave.”

Again, they exchange looks between them.

The one guy who had refrained from saying anything so far, finally opens his mouth: “You’re both dudes, man.”

“Thank you, I had not noticed that!” Enjolras looks on the verge of rolling his eyes.

“It’s fucking disgusting!”

“Careful, next he’s going to quote the Bible,” Grantaire intervenes, unable to restrain himself. Enjolras meets his eyes for a moment, and then his attention is back on the group of oppressors.

“I don’t know whether to comment on the weakness of your arguments or to lecture you on the subject since you clearly know nothing about what you’re talking about and it’s leading you to being a prick.” Enjolras halts, scratches his jaw in contemplation. “Dare I say it is responsible for the stick you have up your ass?”

Grantaire laughs. He cannot control the laughter. He’s vaguely aware of the flaming glare contest that Enjolras is holding with Pimple & Co, but the sobriety he’d felt when kissing Enjolras’s neck is long gone and he cannot stop himself anymore.

“What’s going on?” A softer voice asks.  It sounds agitated, though, so Grantaire looks up to see Jehan standing between Enjolras and Pimple. All three of them are in each other’s personal space, Pimple’s chest almost touching Jehan’s. The boy has to raise his head to stare into Pimple’s eyes.

Obviously, Grantaire missed an important moment while laughter took over him. He’s no longer laughing, but an occasional chuckle still comes out of his mouth.

“Oh, great, the flower has come to join the gay parade!”

“Is that supposed to insult me?” Jehan narrows his eyes in puzzlement. “Because if it was, then you failed. Flowers are among the most beautiful things in the world, so thank you for the compliment. I do hope you’re not flirting with me, though. I don’t go for assholes.”

Pimple punches Jehan. Just like that the amusement is ripped away from Grantaire. Anger resuscitates inside him as Jehan is pushed against a wall with a kind of force Grantaire never thought the boy could take. Yet he does, and the gasp that comes out of his mouth is the only sign of weakness that he shows.

 _What a brave flower_ , Grantaire thinks. And while he hesitates in his thoughts, Enjolras reacts. He’s ripping Pimple away from Jehan before Grantaire can take a step forward.

“I’ve shown you much more patience than you deserve, but I draw the line when you hurt my friends,” Enjolras spits. “If there is one thing I despise the most in this world that is oppressors; assholes like you who make it their mission to deprive others of their freedom for the sake of a laugh. If Jehan wants to put flowers in his hair and write poems, who the fuck are you to tell him he can’t? If I prefer to kiss Grantaire than Anne, who the fuck gave you the right to stop me? You don’t like what you see? Look the other way.”

Never has Grantaire ever heard Enjolras curse before. Somehow he knows that this is a rare occurrence. He’s almost certain Enjolras has had something to drink himself. Perhaps it is the alcohol in him talking. His body can’t be very tolerant to alcohol if he barely ever indulges in a drink.

Alcohol or not, his tone is dark as he clings to Pimple’s collar. If Grantaire were the one on the other end of Enjolras’s wrath, he would be shitting his pants right about now. But Pimple is not Grantaire, and he has more in him than Grantaire would’ve given him credit for.

“Fuck you and your lecture.” He manages to pull Enjolras away with his hands, making the blond man stumble backwards. Quicker than Grantaire can blink, Enjolras has regained his composure. “I’m the guy who’s going to kick you and your friends out of here the hardest way you can possibly imagine if you say another fucking word, cock sucker.”

All eyes are on Enjolras now. Even the party seems to pause to see his reaction. There’s less restraint in his stance and his face than there has been since the exchange begun. He scoffs bitterly, the rawness of the sound foreign to Grantaire’s ears. He takes a step back, contorting his mouth into a smile that matches the Bully’s in its cruelty. In that moment, Enjolras is the living manifestation of a ticking bomb.

The loud music gets unbearable in that stagnant moment that Enjolras takes before reacting. And then he strikes Pimple across the face with his fist, making the other man fall flat on the floor. The force with which he does so is such that the impact can be heard through the music. It echoes in Grantaire’s ears.

Enjolras lowers down to Pimple’s level on the floor. With a hand to his throat, he hinders Pimple from responding to the strike.

Jehan is standing an arm’s length away from Grantaire, covering his open mouth with his hand.

“Don’t think for a second that I’ll allow you to intimidate me and my friends.” Enjolras bellows.

Suddenly, Grantaire becomes aware of Pimple’s friends. Jehan’s elbow to his stomach suggests he is not alone in this. They are ambling closer to Grantaire and Jehan, like snakes. He looks down and sees Enjolras lose his grip on Pimple, who is much bigger than him, just like his friends are bigger than Grantaire and Jehan combined.

They are outnumbered and being threatened by glares. But up until then nothing has impacted Grantaire so much as the sound of Pimple’s fist colliding with Enjolras’s face. The sight of it is horrible, the sway of his blond head as it is propelled back by external force, showing Grantaire the blood that it produces.

Just like that, Grantaire throws revenge out of the window.

“We need to get out of here,” he stresses to Jehan, who nods in answer.

“We’ll have to carry Enjolras, though. He is not going to back away from this fight willingly.”

There’s no need for Jehan to tell him so. Grantaire knows Enjolras’s stubbornness would never permit him to do anything else.

Together they rip Enjolras from his grip on Pimple and take him upstairs. Enjolras struggles relentlessly to free himself from their grip. In the midst of the crowd, they lose track of the enemy and hope against hope that it means the enemy has lost sight of them as well. Jehan finds an open room and thrusts them all inside, locking the door behind him and hiding the key somewhere neither Grantaire nor Enjolras see.

But for the skeleton of an old bed and the three young men inside, the room is barren. The floor is made of battered wood that creaks with every step they take (they cannot hear the sound but they feel the floorboards shift as they move), and the walls are made of the same crumbling bricks as on the outside. The one forlorn window is permanently open, its glass broken.

“Jehan, unlock the door!” Enjolras hangs by the door with his arms crossed while Grantaire seats on the edge of what little remains of the bed and Jehan stands on the opposite side of the room.

Jehan shakes his head at Enjolras’s protestations.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why did you have to meddle?” Enjolras asks Jehan. “And you, Grantaire, I thought you were on my side, since you were the instigator!”

“I didn’t sign up to get you beaten up, or me, or Jehan.” Enjolras looks at Grantaire condescendingly.

“That’s what would’ve happened if we’d stayed, Enjolras!” Jehan is biting his nails, restlessly shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I had it under control.”

“What _happened?”_

On the surface, Jehan’s question is a fairly predictable one. It’s a question that they should have no qualms with answering. Yet once it’s uttered, Enjolras and Grantaire’s eyes gravitate to each other’s without their consent. They quickly avert their gazes once they realize the other is looking.

Enjolras discloses the tale to his friend, who grows more and more wide-eyed as more words come out of Enjolras’s mouth. At one point he has to sit down next to Grantaire in order to process the information. Such a move renders Enjolras even more irritated and distressed. He appears to be ready to jump someone – and not in the sense that would have Grantaire volunteering to be jumped.

“You kissed Grantaire?” Jehan asks, dumbfounded, once Enjolras falls silent.

“Yes, I did. As I have said, to go through with the plan—“

“And Grantaire kissed you back?”

Enjolras, who is already agitated, turns red from being interrupted.

“Yes! But—“

Again, Jehan appears to be indifferent to Enjolras’s mood. He interrupts him to speak to Grantaire with a smile he has not seen the boy regard him with in a while.

“So you don’t like Courfeyrac?” Jehan asks.

Grantaire knits his eyebrows together. Not only is the question unexpected but it also makes little to no sense.

“He’s cool…” The sentence ends with an involuntary hiccup that turns into grunt when Jehan envelops him in a brief but no less intense hug. Grantaire is pretty sure that he can feel Jehan’s ribs against his own. “Why—“ Grantaire tries, but Jehan cuts him off too.

“I don’t know about you two, but I think those guys were right about me. I think I like… someone.” The bashfulness with which he utters his words is almost endearing to Grantaire. His eyes droop and a flush rises to his cheeks. “When he’s around I can write poetry like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Verses come to me like persuasion come to you, Enjolras, and they’re all beautiful. Every flower reminds me of him. Because it’s his favourite colour, or because it is as strong as he is, or because the way the sun embraces it reminds me of his eyes.”

Jehan’s eloquence is cut short by Enjolras. “Great. Now, can I have the key?”

“No!” Jehan exclaims. In a semi-hysterical voice he then confesses, “It’s Courfeyrac! I think I have fallen in love with Courfeyrac! How can that be?” Desperately, he searches for an answer in the other two faces present in that room with him, finding Enjolras looking intently at Jehan’s pockets, and Grantaire dazedly smiling at him. “I’m screwed. Courfeyrac likes _everyone_. Yes, that means he likes me too, but I don’t even share my poetry with the world, I’m not going to share my boyfriend!”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Enjolras seems about done with the present conversation. He strides over to Jehan and attempts to extricate the key from the boy by force.

Grantaire regards Jehan as a wise young man. He might not have the strength that Enjolras has, but he has his wits to compensate. That is how he manages to scrape by Enjolras, taking advantage of his small stature and his agility to do so with remarkable velocity. Grantaire’s drunken eyes barely have time to register his moving body before he’s out of the room and locking the door from the outside.

The minute the click of the lock is heard, Enjolras bellows a curse. Stubborn as he is, he approaches the door and hits it with his fist repeatedly, calling out for Jehan time and again, despite the fact that clearly the boy is long gone.

“If you don’t shut up they’re going to find us and then the only way out will be a three storey fall through the window.” Grantaire comments from his seat on the metal skeleton of a bed.

“Your fall. I’m not running away.”

“We’ll be one and a half against four! I’m too drunk to count as a whole person.” Grantaire continues.

“I don’t care.”

“I knew you were brave, but I never thought you were stupid!”

In order to look at Grantaire, Enjolras finally lowers his arms and stops hitting the door. He is definitely intoxicated; Grantaire knows the look in his eyes all too well. He’s seen it in the mirror countless times.

“And I’m surprised you even count yourself in! I thought you watched injustice play out from the sidelines, never getting involved.”

If Grantaire had a bottle in his hand, he would be grasping at it and leading it to his mouth just so he could calm down his irregular heartbeats and the self-conscious way that Enjolras’s gaze is making him feel. Alas, he does not, so he sticks to playing with the curls of his hair, taking his beanie off and putting it on again.

“This time injustice has involved me.” He says.

“No it hasn’t. It involved _me_. You involved yourself when you came to me with your plan. So, what was it really for? Did their homophobic comments truly get to you, or did you do it all just because you saw an opportunity to touch me?”

Silence. The music outside the room makes the walls vibrate, but only the bass is distinguishable, and it blends in with the silence, becoming unnoticeable.

Grantaire turns away. He meanders to the perpetually opened window, flumps rather than settles his elbow on the windowsill, devoid of the dexterity of sobriety. It was a reasonable question that Enjolras posed. Unexpected but reasonable. Grantaire feels his cheeks heating almost to the point of blushing but not quite. He is as embarrassed as he is angry at the question.

“You know what? Fuck you, Enjolras.” Grantaire says it more to the world outside than to the actual man standing somewhere behind him, facing his back.

“You were the one who advocated your lack of belief to me, going so far as to say you didn’t think taking action would change anything. So forgive me for assuming you might have acted for the wrong reasons.” Enjolras sighs exasperatedly. “Grantaire, will you look at me while I talk to you?”

Grantaire affords Enjolras little more than his profile. In doing so, he finds Enjolras on the other side of the bed, concerning him with condescending eyes.

“Well?” He says. “Has something changed since then?” The way he poses the question tells Grantaire he’s only doing it out of courtesy, that he does not believe such a thing could be possible.

Grantaire takes in a lungful of air and utters, “Yes” with as much determination as he can muster. But his confession is muffled by the door, which opens and lets in the loud beats of the music, along with a very mad Courfeyrac.

“You fuckers,” He says once the door is closed. “Enjolras, can’t we enjoy one – _one_ – party without your righteous ass getting us all chased by people who either want to arrest us or beat us to death?”

“The circumstances arise. I can’t just stand by without doing anything!” At this, he glances furtively at Grantaire, who is now seated on the windowsill.

Courfeyrac sighs, resigned.

“It was my fault, Courfeyrac. I started it.” Grantaire admits.

“No, it wasn’t. Nor was it mine.” Enjolras says.

The irritation in Courfeyrac’s features disappears in order to be replaced by a smirk. Jehan’s new crush saunters further into the room, stopping somewhere in between the other two men.

“How cute, the love birds defending each other!” He chuckles excitedly. Then he turns his attention to Grantaire. “How did you manage to get him to kiss you? Was it because of my blatant advertisement of your skills, angel lips?”

“I kissed him to prove a point,” the answer doesn’t come from Grantaire but from Enjolras. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Of course it’s my business! I’m your best friend—“

“No, you’re not.”

“—And best friends’ first kisses are always important events to me.”

Enjolras only takes a second to let the embarrassment show in his red cheeks before he takes action. Taking advantage of Courfeyrac’s gloating, he steals the keys from him with ease. In no time, Enjolras is out the door, gone without looking back.

Behind stay Courfeyrac and Grantaire, looking at each other a little dumbfounded.

“Is he always like this?” Grantaire asks.

“What do you think?”

 

*          *          *

If the house looked big from the outside, then from the inside it is endless. This illusion might be worsened by the amount of people that Grantaire and Courfeyrac have to fight their way through as they search for Enjolras. On the one hand, the immensity of the house is good because it raises their chances of not being seen by the group of bullies currently on a mission to murder them. On the other hand, it also makes finding Enjolras as hard as finding a needle in a haystack.

In their search, they spot Combeferre and Éponine. From afar it looks like Éponine is trying to teach some dance moves to a very uncoordinated Combeferre. He laughs along with her, holding a cup of punch on the hand that is not grasping Éponine’s.

Grantaire is reluctant to interrupt them, seeing as they are, not doubt, enjoying each other’s company greatly. Courfeyrac does not share his reluctance, though. Grantaire’s drunk and a little mad with worry for Enjolras, even more so now that he knows Enjolras is not with his best friend. So he lets Courfeyrac interrupt them.

Combeferre immediately loses his smile. They agree to join Grantaire and Courfeyrac in their search, saying they will take the first floor while Courfeyrac and Grantaire take the other two.

They see Chubby and Pimple some time after that. Fortunately, Enjolras is not with them.

“I know that this is not the right time to ask this but what the hell.” Grantaire cocks an eyebrow. “How did Jehan react when _Pimple_ there called him gay?” Courfeyrac asks. He uses Grantaire’s nickname for the bully, finding it more fitting to his personality than his real name.

“He said—“ Grantaire is about to tell him everything but stops in his tracks just in time. “He said he wasn’t insulted by it.”

“Just that?”

“And some other stuff.”

“What other stuff?”

“Stuff. Why do you want to know?” Grantaire smirks.

Courfeyrac flips him the middle finger. He tries his hardest to appear invested in his search for Enjolras. Grantaire can see right through it, which given his drunken state suggests that Courfeyrac’s attempt is a very poor one.

“You like him.” Grantaire says.

“What? Me? Like Jehan? No! I don’t. Really.”

Grantaire is about to laugh when he sees a blond man that looks like Enjolras right in front of him. With a hand to his shoulder, the man turns around.

It’s not Enjolras.

“According to Jehan, you like everyone. So why don’t you like him? He’s handsome, he’s a good guy, and he’s got some balls.” Grantaire continues after the disappointment is diminished.

“He said that?” Grantaire nods. “Well… he’s right… ugh, who am I kidding? I made up the whole kissing everyone thing just so I would get to kiss him and as it turns out he won’t even kiss me in a game of Spin the Bottle. I’m crushed, man.”

“You should tell him that after we find Enjolras.” Grantaire says. To himself, under his breath, he adds, “Where _are_ you?”

Courfeyrac stops him with a hand to his chest.

“Did he tell you something?”

Grantaire smiles.

“Oh my God!”

And then Courfeyrac is gone, off to search for Jehan, leaving Grantaire to find Enjolras on his own while at the same time hide from the pack of wolves that are after him. He curses Courfeyrac in his head, but the thought of Combeferre and Éponine downstairs looking for Enjolras comforts him.

On his own, he scrutinizes every inch of the house from both the second and the third floor, finding no sign of Apollo anywhere. The more he searches, the more gruesome the scenarios in his head become. Finally, he has internalized that most likely they have succeeded in throwing Enjolras out of the party, and he decides to look outside.

It’s when he reaches the stairs that things take a turn for the worse. As he is descending, Pimple and his gang are climbing the stairs. There’s a wall of people behind him that looks impenetrable when he glances back at it. If he managed to jump from the stairs at that height, he would not be able to stand again. He has nowhere to go; yet he cannot merely stand there either.

Grantaire takes a deep breath and runs down the stairs as fast as he can. The thought that this has been the most tiresome day he’s had in years crosses his mind for a second as he pushes Pimple out of his way and keeps on running.

But this time he’s not so lucky. He’s crossing the threshold of the house when a hand grips him by the hair and shoves him backwards. A filthy smile is what he is faced with as he is forced to keep walking forwards. There are cruel voices talking, but he blocks them out in order to keep his urge to vomit at bay.

The instant knowledge that he has no chance of escaping them does not keep him from resisting. Grantaire fights back, but most of his punches and kicks hit the air as his sense of orientation is highly compromised by the alcohol in his veins.

Sooner rather than later, he is falling unconscious on the rotten-grassed ground.

 

*          *          *

 

 

What wakes Grantaire is the absence of noise. In his state of unconsciousness, his body had been present at scenarios where much happened and many noises were made. His own battered body had been handled from one place to another with as much care as the people who now see him as a friend could muster.

He is, evidently, oblivious to all of what’s happened since that last punch that lunged him into unconsciousness. Yet, perhaps, a part of his mind was connected to all the noise. That is why, when silence finally reigns, it is not lulling but unsettling.

A pulsating pain in his temple is the first thing he registers upon consciousness. He has not yet opened his eyes. The pain is one he is more than used to, but soon it isn’t the only one he feels. Something is strange. Along with the pain in his body that he cannot identify or place with certainty, Grantaire feels comfortable. Wherever he is lying down is soft and soothing, and it has a scent that is pleasing. His first conscious thought is that he hasn’t felt this comfortable in years.

In fear that it’s all an incredibly vivid illusion in his head, Grantaire decides to keep his eyes closed for as long as he can. Even when he hears a voice talking somewhere in the distance he does not open them. The voice is so muffled, as if someone were talking from the end of a tunnel, that he only grows surer that he is still dreaming as he hears it.

“What were you thinking?” it asks calmly.

Grantaire can almost connect the voice to a face. He _knows_ that voice. It’s like he can see the silhouette of someone but not their true form.

Once another voice replies, however, he immediately makes the connection.

“I had more to drink that I ought to. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” It is Enjolras who replies to what Grantaire now knows was Combeferre’s question.

Grantaire’s eyes remain closed as he listens intently to their conversation.

“You know better than to drink by now. Or have you forgotten how it makes you more inclined to losing your temper? No one likes it when you do that.”

“I know, but I couldn’t stop thinking…” Enjolras pauses and it’s absolute silence again. “I didn’t like the thoughts I was having. I wanted them to go away. Don’t look at me like that. I realize it was a childish thing to do.”

“Did the thoughts at least go away as you wanted them to?”

“Not for long.”

“Then you do understand why Grantaire drinks.”

“Technically, yes. I understand that one can turn to alcohol to numb the pain or to drown their bitter thoughts. But I realized that drinking wasn’t the smart thing to do rather quickly. He’s smart, Combeferre, even though he pretends he isn’t. That he would willingly dig himself into this hole knowing exactly where he’s headed—it infuriates me!”

Grantaire presses his eyes closed harder, wishes with all his might for all of this to be a dream. Did he really just hear what he heard? He feels as if there’s a hand inside his chest squeezing his heart until it’ll burst.

“We should wake him.” Combeferre says.

Shortly after that, he hears steps. They become louder and clearer, as if someone is walking along the tunnel, getting closer to him. _No, no, let me wake up_ , Grantaire thinks, _let this not be real_.

If this _were_ a dream, if he were to wake up, where would he find himself?

A cool hand slaps Grantaire across the cheek. There’s barely any force to it, but it still hurts. It aggravates the pulsating pain in his temple, causes a hurricane inside his head. Grantaire responds to it with a moan, opening his mouth to let it out. By doing so, another pain assaults him as he opens a wound in his lips that he didn’t know he had. The pain propels his eyes to open and see Combeferre at his bedside, lowering what looks like an icepack to Grantaire’s forehead.

“What’s your name?” Combeferre asks soothingly.

Grantaire’s vision is foggy. Until then he could only distinguish Combeferre’s short blond hair and the worried look with which he regards Grantaire behind his round glasses. A few more blinks of the eyes and Grantaire spots another figure behind him; another blond haired man, standing with his arms crossed at his chest but sharing the same worry with Combeferre.

“Enjolras.” Grantaire says. He continues to have no idea where he is or why there’s a soft mattress under him. The whole environment feels a little alien to him, but Enjolras is there so he doesn’t care much for the rest.

He’s forgotten the conversation he eavesdropped just moments ago for the time being.

“Your name is Enjolras?”

“No… it’s GrantaAAHHire!” Combeferre presses his hand upon a particularly sore patch of skin in his bare chest. As he follows the other two sets of eyes down to his chest, he sees the bruising there, the red blemish that goes from his breast to the side of his chest and disappears to his back.

“What happened to you?”

Enjolras keeps silent and still. Grantaire contemplates him, feeling as if for some reason his injured state has granted him permission to do so freely. He’s still not entirely sure this Enjolras is real, if he is to be honest to himself. This one has a distraught appearance that in no way lessens his beauty. On the contrary, to Grantaire his beauty is even more God-like now, as he stands there with watering eyes that he tries to conceal.

“You kissed me.” Grantaire mutters in response. He doesn’t remember what happened to him exactly, or how he got there – wherever _there_ is. There were kisses, and the curve of Enjolras’s neck. And then there was the surprise of Enjolras’s mouth on his, so briefly that all he was left with was the memory of it happening, not the memory of how it felt. Afterwards there was an argument between the two of them, and when Enjolras ran he searched for him…

Combeferre smiles and turns to his best friend for a moment to show him the curve of his lips. Enjolras hides his face behind his hands in what could be embarrassment or exasperation, Grantaire doesn’t know.

“What day is today?”

“August 4th, 1996.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

There’s a pain in his shoulder blades. It isn’t a strong pain. It’s more of a nuisance. Still it makes him shift in his position as he lies down on his back and grunt. But he smiles and says, “Yes. It was a nice kiss.”

His reply makes Combeferre chuckle, so he thinks it must mean whatever Combeferre was testing him for with these questions, he must have passed.

“You can go back to sleep.” Combeferre says, confirming Grantaire’s deduction.

Grantaire is more than willing to oblige. Last night he barely slept, perturbed by Enjolras’s question about his beliefs as he was. In fact, saying “last night” seems like the understatement of the year to him, as it feels more like it’s been weeks since then. So much has happened, including two attempts to rob him of his life, courtesy of Apollo the Marble Statue of Liberty.

He’s almost lost to unconsciousness again when he hears Enjolras speak in a hush voice much like previously.

“You’re leaving?” He seems a little hysterical as he asks this.

“Someone has got to make sure the others didn’t kill the bastards who did this to him.”

“Let me do that. You’re the doctor, you should stay with him.”

“You do realize this is your mess? Don’t say it isn’t. You left that room on your own and you left your friends worried sick about you. I was one of them, if I may remind you. Grantaire was out there looking for you.” Grantaire hears the sound of a door opening. “Besides, I don’t trust you’d keep them from killing the men who did this to Grantaire. You’d only help dispose of the bodies.”

“Sometimes the fact that you know me so well is infuriating!”

Combeferre chuckles lightly and pats his friend on the shoulder.

“I trust you’ll remember all the instructions I gave you? If he shows any sings of having a concussion, don’t hesitate to take him to the hospital. And wake him up every fifteen minutes for at least another hour. You can keep the van, I’ll take a cab.”

Then the door closes and silence falls. Grantaire cannot hold his eyes open any longer. He falls into a heavy slumber.

 

*          *         *

“Grantaire.”

“Grantaire!”

“GRANTAIRE!”

Grantaire jumps awake. The volume of the voice in his ear is so high that it sends shocks up and down his body. It is worse for his headache than if he’d have been hit in the head by a baseball bat.

It’s Enjolras who wakes him, lacking all the subtlety that Combeferre possessed.

“Enjolras!” He tries his hardest to convey in his voice the irritation he feels. “Did you really have to be so loud?”

“I started out quite softly, if you must know. But you wouldn’t wake up and I didn’t want to touch you in case I’d hurt you.”

Enjolras is seating exactly where Combeferre had been; only he lacks all the comfort with which his best friend had dealt with Grantaire.

“Jesus, I am in that bad a predicament?”

The blank stare that Enjolras gives him is in no way reassuring. Neither is the fact that Enjolras _has_ actually agreed to babysit him. If that does not suggest the situation is dire, then Grantaire doesn’t know what will.

“Have you taken me to the room of the King of France?” Grantaire asks as he gawks at the room he’s in. There are no better words to describe it. From his lying position on the mattress he cannot see the room in its entirety, but he can see the king-size bed he’s in, covered in a silk and velvet duvet. The headboard is made out of padded velvet and mahogany, which extends upwards, disappearing into what Grantaire can only describe as curtains. They fall at both sides of the enormous bed.

Grantaire feels as if he’s lying in a bed made out of gold.

At the foot of the bed there is a couch, and beyond it there is a large window. Its curtains – which are styled in the same golden pattern as the ones from the bed – are drawn, allowing him a view of the city lights.

Enjolras contorts his face in clear distaste.

“We’re in a hotel room.” He clarifies.

“Why is there only one bed?”

“Because it’s tourist season and this is literally the only room available in the whole city. I would never have paid for a room that is styled after the tastes of the monarchy if I had a choice.”

“Oh.”

 Enjolras takes advantage of Grantaire’s silence to pose Combeferre’s questions to him again. Obediently, he replies again that his name is Grantaire, he was bested by four pussy homophobes, today is August 4th, 1996, and yes he is all right.

“…Or maybe not,” the pain in his shoulder blades is making itself more pronounced. He shifts around in his position but it does nothing to relieve him. “Enjolras?”

“Hmm?”

“Do I have to stay lying on my back? My shoulder blades…”

Enjolras bolts upright. His hands wander in the air as he stands there looking entirely out of his comfort zone.

“I don’t think so.” He takes the icepack from Grantaire’s temple.

Grantaire does not want to turn his back to Enjolras, so he tries to lie on his right side. The pain that sears through him is intense, however. He forgot the large bruise that encompasses all of his right side. He moans as the pain manifests itself, unwillingly letting Enjolras know the extent of his injuries. Finally, resigned, he turns on his left side.

There’s hardly any pain in this position, besides the headache and the pulsating feel of his heartbeat in the places where the bruising is worse. Besides, the mattress is the most comfortable he’s ever lied on, the sheets are the most soft, and he’s comfortable again.

Something cold settles on his back and makes him gasp. Grantaire only understands that it was Enjolras’s hand once it flinches away from his skin at his gasp. Enjolras’s hand was always so warm.

“I’m sorry. It’s just—will this hinder your participation in the contest? It was never my intention—“

“I know,” Grantaire says. “It certainly puts a damper on it. But then again, I can’t even play anything decent to myself. How am I supposed to win it anyway?”

“I’ve already told you want I think you need.” Enjolras appears on Grantaire’s line of vision and sits again at his bedside. He has the first three buttons of his shirt opened; his hair is unusually disbelieved, falling over his eyes and forehead. His scruff now looks more than three days old, stained here and there by the blood that had come out of the bruise in his own lip. There are bags under his eyes that Grantaire had not noticed before. The occasional droop of his eyes only confirms what is already so clear: Enjolras is just as tired as Grantaire feels.

“Oh, yes. I need a Muse. But I already have one and still I cannot play.” Enjolras raises his eyebrows in question. “You know, earlier tonight, when you asked me if something had changed—“

“You failed to come up with an answer yet again.” Enjolras interjects.

“Courfeyrac didn’t let me!”

“You mean something _has_ changed?” Enjolras moves closer unconsciously.

Grantaire nods. He is surprised with himself, that he has had the courage to say this much and not back away. But he doesn’t allow himself to reflect on it for too long in fear that doing so will strip him of this welcomed fit of bravery.

“May I ask what exactly is it that has changed?” The question is asked with a certain weariness coupled with a narrowness of the eye that implies he is neither yet convinced Grantaire is being truthful nor that he is lying.

It’s a good start.

“You, Enjolras. I didn’t know you before but I know you now. And I believe in you.”

That, apparently, was the last thing Enjolras expected to come out of Grantaire’s mouth. His eyes are widened just slightly, his mouth opened agape. He also seems to be at a loss for words, which is an incredible and rare feat in itself.

Eventually he drops his gaze and coughs.

“Are you hungry, or thirsty?” He asks.

“Really thirsty.”

Enjolras throws him a nasty look.

“I was just going to ask for some water!” Grantaire’s smile is far from reaching his eyes.

 _It’s fine_ , he thinks. He never really expected anything from Enjolras when he made his confession. He should be happy that he _knows_. That should be enough.

Should.

Enjolras disappears for a moment, returning with a bottle of water and a piece of paper in his hands. He hands both to Grantaire.

“Jehan said to give you that.”

Enjolras doesn’t sit back down on the bed.

“Thanks.” Grantaire raises the bottle in the air, as if toasting an invisible glass, and gulps down on the water.

The note from Jehan is folded carefully. He unfolds it with curious hands and finds it is written on both sides. The side he choses to read first has a neater calligraphy, so he assumes that is the side that was written first.

It reads:

_“Wine comes in at the mouth_

_And love comes in at the eye;_

_That’s all we shall know for the truth_

_Before we grow old and die._

_I lift the glass to my mouth,_

_I look at you, and I sigh.”_

Grantaire flips the paper around.

 

_“This is not a declaration of love! Rather, it is my interpretation of love through your eyes. We’re all waiting for you so please don’t die!_

_P.S.: Thank you for talking to Courf and listening to me. As repayment I say: don’t give up on Enjolras. He will_ never _give up on you.”_

The first thing Grantaire does once he’s read the note is to read it again. The second thing he does is to flick his eyes between Jehan’s P.S and the blond man currently busying himself with trying to get the television to work. Enjolras’s back is turned to Grantaire so he stares as he pleases while he tries to make sense of the meaning of Jehan’s advice.

His train of though is interrupted by Enjolras’s voice.

“Who is Amélie?” He asks Grantaire, and the question is so unexpected that it completely throws him off and rips him from his previous train of though. He never noticed that Enjolras managed to get the television to work, or that he returned to Grantaire’s bedside. But there he stands, hands in his pockets and eyes lowered to the mattress. “I saw the tattoo you have on the back of your neck when Combeferre was inspecting you for injuries.” He explains.

“My little sister.” Grantaire tells him after the initial shock has worn down.

“You have a sister?”

Grantaire nods.

“She was only two when my dad ran away with her.”

“Have you tried looking for her?”

“I was twelve when I started looking for her myself. It took me five years to find her. By then it was too late, she had been dead for a year. She died in some foster home, underfed and uncared for, only five years old. My guess is that my father took her to sell her but something went wrong and he couldn’t take care of her so he just abandoned her.” The words come out of his mouth like a torrent, and he can’t stop them. He wonders if it is possible he _does_ have a concussion since he seems to be a little out of himself.

“None of it was your fault.” Grantaire scoffs. “I mean it! You did all you could. You were just a child. Injustice like that should not happen to anyone, let alone children! And for the sake of money—“

“Stop, Enjolras. Everything you’re about to say, I have thought about before. I don’t want to think about it now.” Grantaire says, and bites his tongue.

Enjolras nods and sits down on the mattress. He plays with the curtains, twisting the fabric in his fingers, lost in his thought. Grantaire is more than pleased to let him stay there, as silence seems delightful to him now, in contrast with the previous conversation.

“I can sing.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Grantaire asks, thinking he must’ve heard Enjolras wrong.

“This morning you asked me what was my hidden talent. That’s it.” He says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Only Combeferre knows I can. I still don’t know how he found out as I rarely sing and when I do I make sure no one is around to hear it.”

Grantaire is more than a little aghast. Never would he have imagined this to be it. But now that the cat is out of the bag, he wants nothing more than to hear Enjolras’s voice while he sings.

“You do realize that I will never believe you unless you show me?” Grantaire challenges.

“I deduced so.”

Grantaire cannot help but grin at that. This time it reaches his eyes and shows his teeth. The cut in his lip hurts a little but he is too delighted to notice or care.

“Maybe it will help me with the healing process. Give it a shot.”

Attempting to hide his smile, Enjolras coughs. Once. Twice. He coughs again. He rubs his hands together and clears his throat. When he opens his mouth, nothing comes out of it but silence.

“I don’t think I can do this.” Enjolras confesses eventually.

“Will it help if I close my eyes?”

“Maybe.”

Grantaire closes his eyes. Enjolras coughs again, only twice this time. And then a soft note is coming out of his throat. It’s very low, almost inaudible, but it grows in volume and intensity rather quickly. Grantaire listens with all the attention he can muster and then some more. Enjolras’s voice is not unlike any other aspect of him, terrible in its beauty. But on the other hand it is his exact opposite. It is unsure at places, and it trembles even when it is at its peak of intensity. It is far from perfect but wonderful because it renders Enjolras human. His voice is still capable of penetrating Grantaire to the bone, inspires him. It is as if Enjolras has just lead Grantaire to the answer he has been looking for.

Grantaire feels thirsty again, so he drinks from his bottle. Tentatively, he dares to open his eyes. The sight that presents itself to him sends a rush of blood to his crotch and he has to be thankful for the sheets that cover him. Enjolras is positively dishevelled, sweaty, and the blush in his cheeks extends down his neck and disappears in his chest, beneath his shirt. He has his own eyes closed, his lips move as he keeps singing a song about angry men and barricades.

After the song is over, Enjolras flutters his eyes open and runs a hand through his hair. His half smile is almost bashful.

“I think you just cured me.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes as he gets on his feet and disappears through a door that Grantaire assumes must lead to the bathroom. While he stays there, Grantaire turns to the television. There’s a black and white film playing. He tries his hardest to concentrate, but the attempt is futile. How can he possibly concentrate on anything when he has the image of Enjolras’s lips as he sings so clear in his head? When Enjolras’s voice still rings in his hears?

When Enjolras finally comes out of the bathroom, he does so minus his trousers. Grantaire looks intently at the television screen, where a man and a woman are kissing passionately.

“Not helping…” He mutters under his breath.

Enjolras approaches him.

“Combeferre left these for you, to actually help with your pain.”

Grantaire takes the pills that are being handed to him and gulps them down without any water to help.

Enjolras lies down on the couch at the foot of the bed and covers his body with a blanket that has been folded neatly on top of its cushions until then.

“Enjolras, you’re not going to sleep on the couch. This bed is bigger than your love for patria.” Grantaire says. He’s back to lying on his back, as he was starting lose feeling on his right arm.

“Hardly.” Enjolras says, but he crawls onto the bed nonetheless, settling on the opposite side of the bed. Indeed the bed is so big that not even a hair of Enjolras’s touches Grantaire.

Enjolras checks his watch.

“You can’t sleep for another half an hour, according to Combeferre. Or should I say, you can, but I will have to wake you in fifteen minutes to check you are not dying.”

“But you just gave me painkillers!”

“Maybe I should’ve waited.”

Grantaire chuckles.

Instead of sleeping, they watch the remainder of the film. That only occupies ten more minutes, however, and Grantaire’s eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. Moreover, he is growing more lightheaded and loose. He contemplates Enjolras as if his eyes belong to his figure, while he fantasises about what he sees and what he and Enjolras could be doing in that king size bed. Soon enough, he begins to feel like there is nothing stopping him from seeing his fantasy realized.

He turns on his side; the side that had hurt him previously but now only offers him discomfort. Enjolras is half seating half laying on his back an arm’s length away from Grantaire.

“Enjolras, can you come closer?”

“Why?” The blond asks.

“Please.”

Enjolras obliges, albeit hesitantly.

“Closer.” Grantaire says. He is only content when Enjolras is close enough that he can feel his breath in his neck. He smiles dazedly.

“What is it?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire tucks Enjolras under the covers with him. Enjolras doesn’t object, only observes Grantaire with a quirked eyebrow. They are both breathing heavily, sweating not only due to the warmth inside the room but also from their proximity.

“’ _Je suis farouche’_?” Enjolras whispers when he looks down at the tattoo on Grantaire’s collarbone.

“I _am_ wild.” Grantaire slides a hand to the back of Enjolras’s neck, and upward into his hair. With it he brings Enjolras even closer, his mouth to Grantaire’s. This time he will not allow Enjolras to make this moment brief. His hand holds the blond man in place while Grantaire takes in the incredible softness of Enjolras’s lips.

He kisses Enjolras slowly, savouring every touch, lengthening it as much as he can. Softly, he tempts Enjolras with his tongue, licking the other man’s lips. Enjolras moans, clings to Grantaire’s arm instinctively. It hurts, makes Grantaire cry out in pain. Enjolras realizes what he’s done, then, and he rips his lips away from the kiss. But Grantaire chases after him and kisses him again, as slowly and tentatively as before, aware that Enjolras has little experience from the way he submits to it.

“Grantaire… Stop… Please…” Enjolras mumbles, abeit making no move to stop the move of his lips against Grantaire's.

Unwillingly, Grantaire pulls back. He only has time to tuck this memory in his mind before he is asleep with a smile on his lips.

It takes Enjolras significantly longer to fall asleep that night.

 

 

*          *          *

 

In the morning, the first thing Grantaire does is get his guitar from the van. He doesn’t dare look at himself in the mirror just yet. Instead, he hastily finds his shirt and his keys and leaves the room. When he comes back, it is with his guitar in his hands.

Before he shuts the door to the balcony behind him, he takes a moment to contemplate Enjolras sleeping on the bed. When he woke up, Enjolras had already been taking up most of the space of the bed, his hand just an inch away from Grantaire’s. But now he’s lying in the middle of the mattress, legs thrown to one side, arms to the other, owning the bed completely.

Grantaire closes the door and sits down on one of the wooden chairs outside. The excerpt of his original tablature stares back at him from in between his thumb and index finger, demanding his attention. He bites his lip, smiling. The song comes back to him in the blink of an eye, and it comes out of him and his guitar in perfect tune.

It doesn’t sound horrible or even bad anymore. He's never sounded so good before.

For now, that is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Jehan writes to Grantaire is called "A Drinking Song" and it's from W. B. Yeats
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this, and if so, please let me know in the comments (they always make me more excited to keep writing)!
> 
> See you on the third and last part of this story, hopefully!


End file.
